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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF   TIIK   IkTE 


THOMAS  LITTLE,  Esq, 

L 


EUSISSE   PUDET.  HORACE. 


PHILADELPHIA; 

FHJNTED    AND   PUBLISHED   BY   HUGH     MAXWE! 
NO.    25,   NORTH   SECOND-STREET. 

1804 


*) 
ti 


iTCo  0 


PREFACE 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


THE  Poems  which  I  take  the  liberty  of  publishing-, 
were  never  intended  by  the  Author  to  pass  beyond 
the  circle  of  his  friends.  Pie  thought,  with  some  jus- 
lice,  that  what  are  called  Occasional  Poems  must  be 
always  insipid  and  uninteresting  to  the  greater  part 
of  their  readers.  The  particular  situations  in  which 
they  were  written,  the  character  of  the  author  and 
of  his  associates ;  all  these  peculiarities  must  be 
known  and  felt  before  we  can  enter  into  the  spirit  of 
such  compositions.  This  consideration  would  have 
always,  I  believe,  prevented  Mr.  Tittle  from  sub- 
mitting these  trifles  of  the  moment  to  the  eye  of  dis- 
passionate criticism  ;  and  if  their  posthumous  intro- 
duction to  the  world  be  injustice  to  his  memory,  or 
intrusion  on  the  public,  the  error  must  be  imputed 
to  the  injudicious  partiality  of  friendship. 

Mr.  Little  died  in  his  onc-and-twentieth  year; 
and  most  of  these  Poems  were  written  at  so  early  a 
period,  that  their  errors  may  chum  some  indulgence 


IV 


from  the  critic;  their  author,  as  unambitious  as  indo- 
lent, scarce  ever  looked  beyond  the  moment  of  compo- 
sition ;  he  wrote  as  he  pleased,  careless  whether  he 
pleased  as  he  wrote.  It  mav  likewise  be  remem- 
bered, that  they  were  ail  the  productions  of  an  age 
when  the  passions  very  often  give  a-  colouring  too 
warm  to  the  imagination  ;  and  this  mav  palliate,  if  it 
cannot  excuse,  that  air  of  levity  which  pervades  so 
manv  of  them.  The  "  aurea  legge,  s'ei  piace  ci 
lice,"  he  too  much  pursued,  and  too  much  inculcates. 
Few  can  regret  this  more  sincerely  than  myself;  and 
if  my  friend  had  lived,  the  judgment  of  riper  years 
would  have  chastened  his  mind,  and  tempered  the 
luxuriance  of  his  fancy. 

Mr.  Little  gave  much  of  his  time  to  the  stud-."  of 
the  amatory  writers.  If  ever  he  expected  to  find  in 
the  ancients  that  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  variety 
of  fancy,  which  are  so  necessary  to  refine  and  animate 
the  postry  of  love,  he  was  much  disappointed.  I 
know  not  an}-  one  of  them  who  can  be  regarded  as  a 
model  in  that  st}  le  ;  Ovid  made  love  like  a  rake, 
and  Propertius  like  a  schoolmaster.  The  mytholo- 
gical allusions  of  the  latter  are  called  erudition  by 
his  commentators  ;  but  such  ostentatious  display, 
upon  a  subject  so  simple  as  love,  would  be  now 
esteemed  vague  and  puerile,  and  was  even  in  his 
own  time;;  pedantic.  It  is  astonishing  that  so  many 
critics  have  preferred  him  to  the  pathetic  Tibullu  >; 
but  I  believe  the  delects  which  a  common  reader 
condemns  have  been  looked  upon  ra'.hi  r  as  beauties 
by  those  erudite  men,  the  commentators,  who  find 


a  field  for  their  ingenuity  and  research,  in  his  Grecian 

learning,  and  quaint  obscurities. 

Tibullus  abounds  with  touches  of  fine  and  natural 
feeling.      The    idea    of  his     unexpected    return    to 
Delia,  u  Tunc  veniam  subito  *,"   &c.  is  imagined, 
with  all  the  delicate    ardour  of  a   lover  ;  and    the 
sentiment  of  "  nee  te  posse  carere  velim,"  however 
colloquial  the  expression  may  have  been,  is  natural, 
and  from  the  heart.      But,   in  my  opinion,  the  Poet 
of   Verona    possessed    more    genuine   feeling,   than 
anv    of  them.      His    liie    was,   I    believe,    unfortu- 
nate ;  his  associates  were  wild    and  abandoned;  and 
the  warmth  ot  his  nature  took  too  much   advantage 
of  the  latitude,  which  the  morals   of  those  times   so 
criminally  allowed  to  the  passions.      All  this  depra- 
ved his  imagination,   and   made   it   the   slave  of  his 
senses  :    but  still  a    native  scnsibilitv    is   often  very 
warmly  perceptible;  and  when  he  touches  on  pathos 
he  reaches  the  heart  imnv  diately.      Thev,  who  have 
felt  the  sweets  of  return  to  a  home  from  which  they 
have  long  been   absent,  will    confess,  the    beauty  of 
those  simple,  unaffected  lines  : 

O  quid  sr.lutis  est  bea*ius  curis  ! 

Cum  mens  onus  reponit,  ac  pcregrino 

Lahore  fessi  venimus  Larem  ad  nostrum 

De:;i:leratoque  acquiescimus  lecto,        Carm.  xxxii. 

His  sorrows  on  the  death   of  his    brother  are   the 
very  tears  of  poesy  ;  and  when    he  complains  of  the 

♦  Lib.  i.  F.leg.  3. 


VI 


ingratitude  of  mankind,  even  the  inexperienced  can- 
not but  sympathize  -with  him.  I  wish  I  were  a  poet; 
I  should  endeavour  to  catch,  by  translation,  the 
spirit  of  those  beauties  which  I  admire  *  so  warm- 
ly. It  seems  to  have  been  peculiarly  the  fate  of  Ca- 
tullus, that  the  better  and  more  valuable  part  of  his 
poetry  has  not  reached  us  :  for  there  is  confessedly 
nothing  in  his  extant  works  to  authorize  the  epithet 
"  Doctus,"  so  universally  bestowed  upon  him  by 
the  ancients.  If  time  had  suffered  the  rest  to  escape, 
we  perhaps  should  have  found  amongst  them  some 
more  purely  amatory  ;  but  ox  those  we  possess,  can 
there  be  a  sweeter  specimen  of  warm,  yet  chastened 
description,  than  his  loves  oi  Acme  and  Septimius? 
and  the  few  little  songs  of  dalliance  to  Lesbia  are 
distinguished  by  such  an  exquisite  playfulness,  that 
they  have  always  been  assumed  as  models,  bv  the 
most  elegant  modern  Latinists.  Still,  I  must  con- 
fess, in  the  midst  of  these  beauties, 

Medio  cle  fonte  leporum 
Slirgit  amari  aliquid,  quod  in  ipsis  fioribus  ar.gat  j. 

It  has  often  been  remarked,  that  the  ancients  knew 
nothing  of  gallantry;  and  we  are  told  there  was  too 
much  sincerity  in  their  love  to  allow  them  to  trifle 
with    the    semblance   of   passion.       But     1     cannot 

*  In  the    following  Poems,  there  is  a  translation  of    or.c    of  Lis 
finest  Carmina;  but  1  fancy  it  is  only  a  schooler,;  ':,<_■:.•  v  ,  and  de- 
serves to  be  praised  for  little  more  than  the  attempt. 
|  Lucretius. 


VI 1 


perceive  that  they  were  any  thing  more  constant 
than  the  moderns  ;  they  felt  all  the  same  dissipation 
of  the  heart,  though  the}'  knew  not  those  seductive 
graces,  by  which  gallantry  almost  teaches  it  to  be 
amiable.  Wotton,  the  learned  advocate  for  the 
moderns,  deserts  them  in  considering  this  point  of 
comparison,  and  praises  the  ancients  for  their  ignor- 
ance of  such  a  refinement  ;  but  he  seems  to  have  col- 
lected his  notions  of  gallantry  from  the  insipid  fa- 
deursot  the  French  romances,  which  are  very  unlike 
the  sentimental  levity,  the  "  grata  protervitas,"  of  a 
Rochester  or  a  Sedley. 

From  what  I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing, the  early  poets  of  our  own  language  were  the 
models  ,  which  Mr.  Little  selected  for  imitation.  To 
attain  their  simplicity  (sevo  rarissima  nostro  sim- 
plicitas)  was  his  fondest  ambition.  He  could  not 
have  aimed  at  a  grace  more  difficult  of  attainment  * 
and  his  life  was  of  too  short  a  date  to  allow  him  to 
perfect  such  a  taste ;  but  how  far  he  was  likely  to 
have  succeeded,  the  critic  may  judge  from  his  pro- 
ductions. 

I  have  found  among  his  papers,  a  novel,  \.i  rather 
an  imperfect  state,  which,  as  soon  as  I  have  arran- 
ged and  collected  it,  shall  be  submitted  to  the  public 
eye. 

*  Itis  a  curious  illustration  of  the  labour  which  simplicity  requires, 
that  the  Ramblers  oi  Johnson,  elaborate  as  they  appear,  were 
written  with  fluency,  and  seldom  required  revision;  while 
the  simple  language  of  Rousseau,  which  seems  to  come  flowing 
from  the  heart,  was  the  slow  pr:  duction  of  pain ful_ labour,  paus- 
ing on  every  word,  and  balancing  every  sentence. 


"Where  Mr.  Little  was  born,  or  what  is  thegenea- 
logy  of  his  parents,  arr  points,  in  which  very  few 
readers  can  be  interested.  His  life' was  one  oi  those 
humble  streams,  which  have  scarcely  a  name  in  the 
map  of  life,  and  the  traveller  may  pass  it  by,  without 
inquiring  its  source  or  direction.  His  character  was 
well  known  to  all,  who  were  acquainted  with  him,  ior 
he  had  too  much  vanity  to  hide  its  virtues,  and  not 
enough  of  art  to  conceal  its  defects.  The  lighter 
traits  of  his  mind  mav  be  traced  perhaps  in  his  wri- 
tings ;  but  the  few,  for  which  he  was  valued,  live 
only  in  the  remembrance  of  his  friends. 

T.  M. 


TO  J.     AT— NS— N,     Esq. 


MY  DEAR  SIR, 

I  FEEL  a  very  sincere  pleasure  in  dedicating  to  you 
the  Second  Edition  of  our  friend  Little's  Poems. 
I  am  not  unconscious,  that  there  are  many  in  the 
collection  which  perhaps  it  would  be  prudent  to 
have  altered  or  omitted  ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  I 
more  than  once  revised  them  for  that  purpose  :  but, 
I  know  not  why,  I  distrusted  either  my  heart  or  my 
judgment  ;  and  the  consequence  is,  you  have  them 
in  their  original  form. 

Non  possum  nostros  multse,  Faustine,  litunc 
Emendare  joccs  :   una  litura  potest. 

I  am  convinced,  however,  that,  though  not  quite 
a  casuiste  relache,  you  have  charity  enough  to  forgive 
such  inoffensive  follies  ;  you  know   the  pious   Beza 


was  not  the  less  revered  for  those  sportive  juvenilia 
which  he  published  under  a  ficitious  name  ;  nor  did 
the  levity  of  Bembo's  poems  prevent  him  from  ma- 
king a  very  good  cardinal, 

Believe  me,  my   dear  Friend, 

With  the  truest  esteem. 

Yours, 
April  19th,   1802.  T.  M. 


CONTENTS. 


PACE 

To  Julia.      In  allusion  to  some  illiberal  Criticisms 25 

To  a  Lady.   With  some  manuscript  Poems.     On  leaving  the 

country *>' 

To  Mrs .  If  in  the  dream  that  hovers 29 

To  the  large  and  beautiful  Miss  .     In  Allusion  to 

some  Partnership  in  a  Lottery  Share.   Impromptu. ...  30 

To  Julia.     Well,  Julia,  if  to  love  and  live 31 

Inconstancy 33 

Imitation  of  Catullus.     To  himself 34 

Epigram 37 

To  Julia.     Though  fate,  my  girl,  may  bid  us  part 3H 

Song.     Sweet  seducer,  blandly  smiling 40 

Nature's  Labels.     A  Fragment 42 

To  Mrs .    Sweet  lady,  look  not  thus  again 45 

Song.     Why,  the  world  are  all  thinking  about  is 47 

To  Julia.      Mock  me  no  more  with  Love's  beguiling  dream.  4') 

Impromptu 51 

To  Rosa.     Docs  the  harp  of  Rosa  slumber 52 

Sympathy.      To  Julia .53 

Piety .  $5 

To  Julia.      I  saw  the  peasant's  band  unkind 56 

To  Mrs .      Yes,  I  think  I  once  beard  o[  an  amorous 

vouth 57 


On  the  Death  of  a  Lady 59 

To  Julia.     Sweet  is  the  dream,  divinely  sweet 61 

To .    Can  I  again  that  form  caress 62 

"Written  in  the  blank  Leaf  of  a  Lady's  Common-place  Book  63 

Song-.      Away  with  this  pouting  and  sadness 64 

To  Rosa.     Like  one  who  trusts  to  summer  skies 66 

To  Rosa.     Oh  !  why  should  the  girl  of  my  soul  be  in  tears. .  67 

Rondeau *. 68 

An  Argument  to  any  Phillis  or  Chloe 70 

To  Rosa.     Written  during  Illness 71 

Anacreontique 73 

Anacreontique 74 

Oh  woman !  if  by  simple  wile 75 

Love  and  Marriage 76 

The  kiss 79 

T0    Miss  •     On   her   asking   the   Author,  why    she   had 

sleepless  Nights 80 

Nonsense 82 

To  Julia.     On  her  Birth  day 83 

Elegiac  Stanzas 84 

To  Rosa.     And  are  you  then  a  thing  of  art 85 

Love  in  a  Storm 87 

Song.     Jessy  on  a  bank  was  sleeping 88 

The  Surprise     "J 

To  a  sleeping  Maid 90 

To  Phillis 91 

Song.     When  the  heart's  feeling 92 

A  Ballad 93 

To  Mrs ■     On   her  beautiful   Translation    of  Voiture's 

Kiss 95 


To  a  Lady.     On  her  Singing 96 

A  Dream 98 

Written  in  a   Common-place  Book,   called  "  The   Book  of 
Follies,"  to   which  every   one   that  opened  it  should 

contribute  something 99 

Written  in  the  same.     To  the  pretty  little  Mrs Im- 
promptu     101 

Song.     Dear!  in  pity  do  not  speak 102 

The  Tear 103 

To .     So  Rosa  turns  her  back  on  me 104 

To  Julia,  weeping 106 

Song.     Have  you  not  seen  the  timid  tear 107 

The  Shield 108 

To  Mrs. .     Yes,  Heav'n  can  witness  how  I  strove 110 

Elegiac  Stanzas.     Supposed  to  be  written  by  Julia,  on  the 

Death  of  her  Brother 114 

Fanny  of  Timmol.     A  Mail  Coach  Adventure 117 

A  Night  Thought 120 

Elegiac  Stanzas 121 

The  Kiss 122 

To .     With  all  my  soul,  then,  let  us  part 123 

A  Reflection  at  Sea 126 

An  Invitation  to  Supper.     To  Mrs 127 

An  Ode  upon  Morning 130 

Song.     Oh  !   nothing  in  life  can  sadden  us 132 

Come  tell  me  where  the  maid  is  found 135 

Song.    Sweetest  love  !  I'll  not  forget  thee 136 

Song.     If  I  swear  by  that  eye,  you  '11  allow 138 

Julia's  Kiss 140 

To  .     Remember  him  thou  leav'st  behind 141 

Song.     Fly  from  the  world,  oh  Bessy  !  to  me 144 


XlV 

Song.     Think  on  that  look  of  humid  ray 146 

Song.     A  captive  thus  to  thee,  my  girl 147 

The  Catalogue 148 

A  Fragment.     To  — — -  .  •  • <  151 

Song.     Where  is  the  nymph,  whose  azure  eye 154 

Song.     When  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away 155 

The  Shrine.     To 157 

Reuben  and  Rose.     A  Tale  of  Romance , 158 

The  Ring.     A  Tale 162 

Song.     On  the  Birth  day  of  Mrs Written  in  Ireland.   176 

To  a  Boy,  with  a  Watch.     Written  for  a  Friend 179 

Fragments  of  College  Exercises 181 

Is  there  no   call,  no  consecrating  cause 183 

Song.     Mary,  I  believ'd  thee  true 184 

Song.     Why  does  azure  deck  the  sky •   .  186 

Morality.  A  Familiar  Epistle.   Addressed  to  Jos.  At — ns — n, 

Esq.  M.R.I. A 187 

The   Natal   Genius.     A  Dream.     To  .   the  Morning  of 

her  Birth-Day 192 


POEMS,  &c. 


TO  JULIA. 

IN  ALLUSION   TO  SOME   ILLIBERAL   CRITICISMS. 

WHY,  let  the  stingless  critic  chide 
With  all  that  fame  of  vacant  pride, 
Which  mantles  o'er  the  pedant  fool, 
Like  vapour  on  a  stagnant  pool! 
Oh  !   if  the  song,  to  feeli^  true, 
Can  please  th'  elect   the  sacred  few, 
Whose  souls,  by  Taste  and  Nature  taught, 
Thrill  with  the  genuine  pulse  of  thought — 
If  some  fond,  feeling  maid,  like  thee, 
The  warm-ey'd  child  of  Sympathy, 
Shall  say,  while  o'er  my  simple  theme 
She  languishes  in  Passion's  dream, 


26 

"  He  was,  indeed,  a  tender  soul — 
"  No  critic  law,  no  chill  controul, 
"  Should  ever  freeze,  by  timid  art, 
"  The  flowings  of  so  fond  a  heart!" 
Yes,  soul  of  Nature  !  soul  of  Love  I 
That,  hovering  like  a  snow-wing'd  dove, 
Breath'd  o'er  my  cradle  warblings  wild, 
And  hail'd  me  Passion's  warmest  child! 
Grant  me  the  tear  from  Beauty's  eye, 
from  Feeling's  breast  the  votive  sigh; 
Oh  !  let  my  song,  my  memory  find 
A  shrine  within  the  tender  mind ; 
And  I  will  scorn  the  critic's  chide, 
And  I  will  scorn  the  fume  of  pride, 
Which  mantles  o'er  the  pedant  fool, 
Like  vapour  on  a  stagnant  pool! 


TO  a  lady; 

WITH  SOME  MANUSCRIPT  POEMS, 

ON  LEAVING   THE  COUNTRY. 


WHEN,  casting  many  a  look  behind, 
I  leave  the  friends  I  cherish  here, 

Perchance  some  other  friends  to  find, 
But  surely  finding  none  so  dear  : 

Haply  the  little  simple  page, 

Which  votive  thus  I've  trac'd  for  thee, 
-May  now  and  then  a  look  engage, 

And  steal  a  moment's  thought  for  me. 

But,  oh  !   in  pity  let  not  those, 

Whose  hearts  are  not  of  gentle  mould, 
Let  not  the  eye  that  seldom  flows 

With  feeling  tear,  my  song  behold. 


28 

For  trust  me,  they  who  never  melt 
With  pity,  never  melt  with  love ; 

And  they  will  frown  at  all  I've  felt, 
And  all  my  loving  lays  reprove. 

But  if  perhaps  some  gentler  mind, 

Which  rather  loves  to  praise  than  blame, 

Should  in  my  page  an  interest  find, 
And  linger  kindly  on  my  name ; 

Tell  him, — or,  oh!   if  gentler  still, 
By  female  lips  my  name  be  blest; 

Ah  !  where  do  all  affections  thrill 
So  sweetly  as  in  woman's  breast  ? 

Tell  her,  that  he,  whose  loving  themes 
Her  eye  indulgent  wanders  o'er, 

Could  sometimes  wake  from  idle  dreams. 
And  bolder  flights  of  fancy  soar ; 

That  glory  oft  would  claim  the  lay, 

And  Friendship  oft  his  numbers  move  ; 

But  whisper  then,  that,  "  sooth  to  say, 
"  His  sweetest  song  was  giv'n  to  Love  !" 


TO  MRS. 


IF,  in  the  dream  that  hovers 
Around  my  sleeping  mind, 

Fancy  thy  form  discovers, 

And  paints  thee  melting  kind; 

If  joys  from  sleep  I  borrow, 
Sure  thou'lt  forgive  me  this; 

For  he,  who  wakes  to  sorrow, 
A.t  least  may  dream  of  bliss  I 

On  !   if  thou  art,  in  seeming, 
All  that  I've  e'er  requir'd ; 

Oh!   if  I  feel,  in  dreaming, 
All  that  I've  e'er  desir'd  ; 

Wilt  thou  forgive  my  taking 

A  kiss  or something  more? 

What  thou  deny'st  me  waking, 

Oh!  let  me  slumber  o'er! 
2  jj 


TO  THE  LARGE  AND  BEAUTIFUL 


MISS 


IN    ALLUSION'    TO    SOME    rAllTXEKSHir    I.V    A     LOTTERY     SIIAUf. 


IMPROMPTU. 


IN  wedlock  a  species  of  lottery  lies, 
Where  in  blanks  and  in  prizes  we  deal ; 

But  how  comes  it,  that  you,  such  a  capital  prize. 
Should  so  long  have  remained  in  the  wheel? 

If  ever,  bv  Fortune's  indulgent  decree, 

To  me  such  a  ticket  should  roll ; 
A  sixteenth,  Heav'n  knows!  were  sufficient  for  me, 

For  what  could  I  do  with  the  whole? 


TO  JULIA. 


WELL,  Julia,  if  to  love,  and  live, 
'Mid  all  the  pleasures  love  can  give, 

Be  crimes  that  bring  damnation; 
You — you  and  I  have  giv'n.  such  scope 
To  loves  and  joys,  Ave  scarce  can  hope, 

In  heav'n,  the  least  salvation! 

And  yet,  I  think,  did  Heav'n  design 
That  blisses  dear,  like  yours  and  mine, 

Should  be  our  own  undoing; 
It  had  not  made  my  soul  so  warm, 
Nor  giv'n  you  such  a  witching  form, 

To  bid  me  dote  on  ruin  ! 


32 

T^hen  wipe  away  that  timid  tear; 
Sweet  truant !  you  have  nought  to  fear, 

Though  you  were  whelm'd  in  sin; 
Stand  but  at  heaven's  gate  awhile, 
And  you  so  like  an  angel  smile, 

They  can't  but  let  you  in. 


INCONSTANCY. 


AND  do  I  then  wonder  that  Julia  deceives  me, 
When  surely  there's  nothing  in  nature  more  common? 

She  vows  to  be  true,  and  while  vowing  she  leaves  me — 
But  could  I  expect  any  more  from  a  woman? 

Oh!  woman,  your  heart  is  a  pitiful  treasure, 
And  Mahomet's  doctrine  was  not  too  severe, 

When  he  thought  you  were  only  materials  of  pleasure, 
And  reason  and  thinking  were  out  of  your  sphere. 

By  your  heart,  when  the  fond  sighing  lover  can  win  it, 
He  thinks  that  an  age  of  anxiety's  paid; 

But  oh!  while  he's  blest,  let  him  die  on  the  minute — 
If  he  live  but  a  day,  he'll  be  surely  betray'd. 


IMITATION  OF  CATULLUS* 


TO    HIMSELF. 


Miser  Catulle,  desinas  ineptire,  &c. 


CEASE  the  sighing  fool  to  play; 
Cease  to  trifle  life  away; 
Nor  vainly  think  those  joys  thine  own, 
Which  all,  alas  !  have  falsely  flown  ! 
What  hours,  Catullus,  once  were  thine, 
How  fairly  seem'd  thy  day  to  shine, 


*  Few  poets  knew  better  than  Catullus  what  a  French  write) 

calls 

la  delicatesse 


D'un  voluptueux  sentiment.         E. 


35 

When  lightly  thou  didst  fly  to  meet 
The  girl,  who  smil'd  so  rosy  sweet — 
The  girl,  thou  lov'dst  with  fonder  pain, 
Than  e'er  thy  heart  can  feel  again, 
You  met — your  souls  seem'd  all  in  one — 
Sweet  little  sports  were  said  and  done — 
Thy  heart  was  warm  enough  for  both,1; 
And  hers,  indeed,  was  nothing  loth. 
Such  were  the  hours  that  once  were  thine, 
But,  ah !  those  hours  no  longer  shine  j 
For  now  the  nymph  delights  no  more 
In  what  she  lov'd  so  dear  before ; 
And  all  Catullus  now  can  do, 
Is  to  be  proud  and  frigid  too; 
Nor  follow  where  the  wanton  flies, 
Nor  sue  the  bliss,  that  she  denies. 
False  maid!  he  bids  farewel  to  thee, 
To  love,  and  all  love's  misery. 
The  hey-day  of  his  heart  is  o'er, 
Nor  will  he  court  one  favour  more; 
But  soon  he'll  see  thee  droop  thy  head, 
Doom'd  to  a  lone  and  loveless  bed, 
"When  none  will  seek  the  happy  night 
Or  come  to  traffic  in  delight! 


36 

Fly,  perjur'd  girl! — but  whither  fly? 
Who  now  will  praise  thy  cheek  and  eye?* 
Who  now  will  drink  the  syren  tone, 
Which  tells  him  thou  art  all  his  own? 
Who  now  will  court  thy  wild  delights, 
Thy  honied  kiss,  and  turtle  bites  ? 
Oh!  none. — And  he  who  lov'd  before 
Can  never,  never  love  thee  more ! 

*  Chi  piu  diravvi  allora 
Che  v'  ama,  che  v'  adora? 
Chi  piu  suo  ben  sua  speme 
AUor  vi  chiamera? 

Metastasio.    L'Ainor  Prigioncrt, 


EPIGRAM.* 


YOUR  mother  says,  my  little  Venus, 
There's  something  not  correct  between  us, 

And  you're  in  fault  as  much  as  I : — 
Now,  on  my  soul,  my  little  Venus, 
I  think  'twould  not  be  right  between  U6, 

To  let  your  mother  tell  a  lie ! 


*  I  believe  this  epigram  is  originally  French.       E. 
c 


TO  JULIA. 


THOUGH   Fate,  my  girl,  may  bid  us  part, 
Our  souls  it  cannot,  shall  not  sever; 

The  heart  will  seek  its  kindred  heart, 
And  cling  to  it  as  close  as  ever. 

But  must  we,  must  we  part  indeed? 

Is  all  our  dream  of  rapture  over? 
And  does  not  Julia's  bosom  bleed, 

To  leave  so  dear,  so  fond  a  lover? 

Does  she  too  mourn? — Perhaps  she  may, 
Perhaps  she  weeps  our  blisses  fleeting: 

But  why  is  Julia's  eye  so  gay, 

If  Julia's  heart,  like  mine,  is  beating? 


39 

I  oft  have  lov'd  the  brilliant  glow 

Of  rapture,  in  her  blue  eye  streaming. — 

But  can  the  bosom  bleed  with  woe, 
While  j'-y  is  in  the  glances  beaming? 

No,  no !  yet,  love,  I  will  not  chide, 

Although  your  heart  were  fond  of  roving: 

Nor  that,  nor  all  the  world  beside, 

Could  keep  your  faithful  boy  from  loving. 

You'll  soon  be  distant  from  his  eye, 

And,  with  you,  all  that's  worth  possessing. 

Oh !  then  it  will  be  sweet  to  die, 
When  life  has  lost  its  only  blessing! 


SONG, 


SWEET  seducer!  blandly  smiling, 
Charming  still,  and  still  beguiling! 
Oit  I  swore  to  love  thee  never. 
Yet  I  love  thee  more  than  ever! 

Whv  that  little  wanton  blushing, 
Glancing  eye,  and  bosom  flushing? 
Flashing  warm,  and  wily  glancing, 
All  is  lovely,  all  entrancing! 

Turn  awav  those  lips  of  blisses — 
I  am  poison'd  by  thy  kisses ! 
Yet,  again,  ah!  turn  them  to  me: 
Ruin's  sweet,  when  thev  undo  me! 


41 


Oh!  be  less,  be  less  enchanting, 
Let  some  little  grace  be  wanting; 
Let  my  eyes,  when  I'm  expiring, 
Gaze  awhile,  without  admiring! 


2  c 


NATURE'S  LABELS. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


IN  vain  we  fondly  strive  to  trace 

The  soul's  reflection  in  the  face  ; 

In  vain  we  dwell  on  lines  and  crosses, 

Crooked  mouth,  or  short  proboscis: 

Boobies  have  look'd  as  wise  and  bright 

As  Plato,  or  the  Stagirite; 

And  many  a  sage  and  learned  skull 

Has  peep'd  through  windows  dark  and  dull! 

Since  then,  though  art  do  all  it  can, 

AVre  ne'er  can  reach  the  inward  man, 

Nor  inward  woman  from  without — 

(Though,  Ma'am,  you  smile,  as  it"  in  doubt) 


43 

I  think  'twere  well  if  Nature  could 

(And  Nature  could,  if  Nature  would) 

Some  pretty,  short  descriptions  write 

On  tablets  large,  in  black  and  white, 

Which  she  might  hang  about  our  throttles, 

Like  labels  upon  physic-bottles. 

There  we  might  read  of  all — but  stay — 

As  learned  dialectics  say, 

The  argument  most  apt  and  ample 

For  common  use,  is  the  example; 

For  instance,  then — if  Nature's  care 

Had  not  arrang'd  those  traits  so  fair, 

Which  speak  the  soul  of  Lucy  L-nd-n, 

This  is  the  label  she'd  have  pinn'd  on: 

LABEL    FIRST. 

Within  this  vase  there  lies  enshrin'd 
The  purest,  brightest  gem  of  mind! 
Though  Feeling's  hand  may  sometimes  throw 
Upon  its  charms  the  shade  of  woe, 
The  lustre  of  the  gem,  when  veil'd, 
Shall  be  but  mellow'd,  not  conceal'd. 


44 

Now,  Sirs,  imagine,  if  you're  able, 
That  Nature  wrote  a  second  label; 
They're  her  own  words — at  least  suppose  so- 
And  boldly  pin  it  on  Pomposo. 

LABEL    SECOND. 

When  I  compos'd  the  fustian  brain 
Of  this  redoubted  Captain  Vain, 
I  had  at  hand  but  few  ingredients, 
And  so  was  forc'd  to  use  expedients. 
I  put  therein  some  small  discerning, 
A  grain  of  sense,  a  grain  of  learning; 
And  when  I  saw  the  void  behind, 
I  fill'd  it  up  with — froth  and  wind ! 
*         *         *         -*-  *         #  * 


TO  MRS. 


SWEET  lady!  look  not  thus  again; 

Those  little  pouting  smiles  recall, 
A  maid,  remember'd  now  with  pain, 

Who  was  my  love,  my  life,  my  all! 

Oh!  while  this  heart  delirious  took, 
Sweet  poison  from  her  thrilling  eye, 

Thus  would  she  pout,  and  lisp,  and  look, 
And  I  would  hear,  and  gaze,  and  sigh ! 

Yes,  I  did  love  her — madly  love — 
She  was  the  dearest,  best  deceiver! 

And  oft  she  swore  she'd  never  rove ; 
And  I  was  destin'd  to  believe  her! 


46 

Then,  Lady,  do  not  wear  the  smile 
Of  her  whose  smile  could  thus  betray. 

Alas!   I  think  the  lovely  wile 

Again  might  steal  my  heart  away. 

And  when  the  spell,  that  stole  my  mind, 
On  lips  so  pure  as  thine  I  see, 

I  fear  the  heart  which  she  resign'd 
Will  err  again,  and  fly  to  thee  ! 


SONG. 


WHY,  the  world  are  all  thinking  about  it; 

And  as  for  myself,  I  can  swear, 
If  I  fancied  that  heav'n  were  without  it, 

I'd  scarce  feel  a  wish  to  go  there. 

If  Mahomet  would  but  receive  me, 
And  Paradise  be  as  he  paints; 

I'm  greatly  afraid,  God  forgive  me! 
I'd  worship  the  eyes  of  his  saints. 

But  why  should  I  think  of  a  trip 
To  the  Prophet's  seraglio  above, 

When  Phillida  gives  me  her  lip, 
As  my  own  little  heaven  of  love? 


48 


Oh!  Phyllis,  that  kiss  may  be  sweeter, 
Than  ever  by  mortal  was  given ; 

But  your  lip,  love,  is  only  St.  Peter, 
And  keeps  but  the  key  to  your  heaven ! 


TO  JULIA. 


MOCK  me  no  more  with  Love's  beguiling  dream, 

A  dream,  I  find,  illusory  as  sweet: 
One  smile  of  friendship,  nay,  of  cold  esteem, 

Is  dearer  far,  than  Passion's  bland  deceit! 

I've  heard  you  oft  eternal  truth  declare ; 

Your  heart  was  only  mine  I  once  believ'd. 
Ah  I  shall  I  say  that  all  your  vows  were  air? 

And  must  I  say,  my  hopes  were  all  deceiv'd? 

Vow,  then,  no  longer  that  our  souls  are  twin'd, 
That  all  our  joys  are  felt  with  mutual  zeal! 

Julia!   'tis  pity,  pity  makes  you  kind; 

You  know  I  love,  and  you  would  seem  to  feel. 


50 


But  shall  I  still  go  revel  in  those  arms 
On  bliss  in  which  affection  takes  no  part? 

No,  no  I  farewel !  you  give  me  but  your  charms, 
When  I  had  fondly  thought  you  gave  your  heart! 


IMPROMPTU. 


LOOK  in  my  eyes,  my  blushing  fair! 
Thou'lt  see  thyself  reflected  there. 
And  as  I  gaze  on  thine,  I  see 
Two  little  miniatures  of  me. 
Thus  in  our  looks  some  propagation  lies, 
For  we  make  babies  in  each  other's  eyes. 


TO  ROSA. 


DOES  the  harp  of  Rosa  slumber? 
Once  it  breath'd  the  sweetest  number! 
Never  does  a  wilder  song 
Steal  the  breezy  lyre  along, 
When  the  wind,  in  odours  dying, 
Wooes  it  with  enamour'd  sighing. 

Docs  the  harp  of  Rosa  cease? 
Once  it  told  a  tale  of  peace 
To  her  lover's  throbbing  breast- 
Then  he  was  divinely  blest! 
Ah!   but  Rosa  loves  no  more, 
Therefore  Rosa's  song  is  o'er, 
And  her  harp  neglected  lies; 
And  her  boy  forgotten  sighs. 
Silent  harp — forgotten  lover — 
Rosa's  love  and  song  are  over! 


SYMPATHY. 


TO  JULIA. 


sine  me  sit  nulla  Venus.         Sulpicia. 


OUR  hearts,  my  love,  were  doom'd  to  be 
The  genuine  twins  of  Sympathy, 

They  live  with  one  sensation: 
In  joy  or  grief — but  most  in  love, 
Our  heart-strings  musically  move, 

And  thrill  with  like  vibration. 

I  low  often  have  I  heard  thee  say, 

Thy  vital  pulse  shall  cease  to  play 

When  mine  no  more  is  moving! 

Since  no\vr  to  feel  a  joy  alone 

Were  worse  to  thee,  than  feeling  none 

Such  sympathy  in  loving! 
2  D 


54 

And,  oh!  how  often  in  those  eyes, 
Which  melting  beam'd,  like  azure  skies 

In  dewy  vernal  weather ; 
How  often  have  I  raptur'd  read 
The  burning  glance,  that  silent  said 

"  Now,  love,  we  feel  together!" 


PIETY. 


SUE,  the  pretty  nun, 

Prays  with  warm  emotion; 

Sweetly  rolls  her  eyes 
In  love  or  in  devotion! 

If  her  pious  heart 

Softens  to  relieve  you, 
She  gently  shares  the  fault 

With,  "Oh!  may  God  forgive  you!" 


TO  JULIA. 


I  SAW  the  peasant's  hand  unkind 
From  yonder  oak  the  ivy  sever; 

They  seem'd  in  very  being  twin'd, 
Yet  now  the  oak  is  fresh  as  ever. 

Not  so  the  widow'd  ivy  shines, 
Torn  from  its  dear  and  only  stay; 

In  drooping  -widowhood  it  pines, 
And  scatters  all  its  blooms  away! 

Thus,  Julia,  did  our  hearts  entwine, 
Till  Fate  disturb'd  their  tender  ties: 

Thus  gay  indifference  blooms  in  thine, 
While  mine,  deserted,  droops  and  dies! 


TO  MRS. 


In  canuti  pensier  ai  disconvene.        GkJARiHt. 


YES,  I  think  I  once  heard  of  an  amorous  youth, 
Who  was  caught  in  his  grandmother's  bed; 

But  I  own  I  had  ne'er  such  a  liquorish  tooth, 
As  to  wish  to  be  there  in  his  stead. 

'Tis  for  you,  my  dear  Madam,  such  conquests  to  make, 

Antiquarians  may  value  you  high, 
But,  I  swear,  I  can't  love  for  antiquity's  sake, 

Such  a  poor  virtuoso  am  I. 

I  have  seen  many  ruins  all  gilded  with  care, 
But  the  cracks  were  still  plain  to  the  eye; 

And  I  ne'er  felt  a  passion  to  venture  in  there, 
But  turn'd  up  my  nose,  and  pass'd  by! 


58 

I  perhaps  might  have  sigh'd  in  your  magical  chain, 
When  your  lip  had  more  freshness  to  deck  it; 

But  I'd  hate  even  Dian  herself  in  the  rvaney 
She  might  then  go  to  hell  for  a  Hecate! 

No,  no !   when  my  heart's  in  these  amorous  faints, 
Which  is  seldom,  thank  Heaven!  the  case; 

For  by  reading  the  Fathers  and  Lives  of  the  Saints, 
I  keep  up  a  stock  of  good  grace. 

But  then  'tis  the  creature,  luxuriant  and  fresh, 

That  my  passion  with  ecstacy  owns ; 
For  indeed,  my  dear  Madam,  though  fond  of  the  flesh, 

I  never  was  partial  to  bones! 


ON  THE 


DEATH  OF  A  LADY. 


SWEET  spirit!  if  thy  airy  sleep 

Nor  sees  my  tears,  nor  hears  my  sighs, 

Oh!   I  will  weep,  in  luxury  weep, 

Till  the  last  heart's-drop  fill  mine  eyes. 

But  if  thy  sainted  soul  can  feel, 

And  mingles  in  our  misery; 
Then,  then,  my  breaking  heart  I'll  seal, 

Thou  shalt  not  hear  one  sigh  from  me! 

The  beam  of  morn  was  on  the  stream, 
But  sullen  clouds  the  day  deform: 

Thou  wert,  indeed,  that  morning  beam, 
And  death,  alas !  that  sullen  storm. 


60 


Thou  wert  not  form'd  for  living  here, 
For  thou  wert  kindred  with  the  sky; 

Yet,  yet  we  held  thee  all  so  dear, 

"We  thought  thou  wert  not  form'd  to  die! 


TO  JULIA. 


SWEET  is  the  dream,  divinely  sweet, 
When  absent  souls  in  fancy  meet! 
At  midnight,  love !   I'll  think  of  thee ; 
At  midnight,  love!  oh!  think  of  me; 
Think  that  thou  giv'st  thy  dearest  kiss, 
And  I  will  think  I  feel  the  bliss. 
Then,  if  thou  blush,  that  blush  be  min; 
And  if  I  weep,  the  tear  be  thine! 


TO 


CAN  I  again  that  form  caress. 
Or  on  that  lip  in  rapture  twine  ? 

No,  no !  the  lip  that  all  may  press 
Shall  never  more  be  press'd  by  mine. 

Can  I  again  that  look  recall, 

Which  once  could  make  me  die  for  thee: 
No,  no!  the  eve  that  burns  on  all 

Shall  never  more  be  pri/.'d  by  me! 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  BLANK  LEAF 


A  LADY'S  COMMON  PLACE-BOOK. 


HERE  is  one  leaf  reserv'd  for  me, 
From  all  thy  dear  memorials  free; 
And  here  my  simple  song  might  tell 
The  feelings  thou  must  guess  so  well. 
But  could  I  thus,  within  thy  mind, 
One  little  vacant  comer  find, 
Where  no  impression  yet  is  seen, 
Where  no  memorial  yet  has  been, 
Oh!  it  should  be  mv  sweetest  care 
To  write  my  name  forever  there  ! 


SONG. 


AWAY  with  this  pouting  and  sadness, 

Sweet  girl!  will  you  never  give  o'er? 
I  love  you,  by  Heaven!  to  madness, 

And  what  can  I  swear  to  you  more  ? 
Believe  not  the  old  women's  fable, 

That  oaths  are  as  short  as  a  kiss : 
I'll  love  you  as  long  us  I'm  able, 

And  swear  for  no  longer  thr.n  this. 

Then  waste  not  the'time  with  professions; 

For  not  to  be  blest  when  we  can, 
Is  one  of  the  darkest  transgressions 

That  happen  'twixt  woman  and  man. 
Pretty  moralist!  why  thus  beginning 

My  innocent  warmth  to  reprove? 
Heav'n  knows  that  I  never  lov'd  sinning — 

Except  little  sinnings  in  love! 


65 

If  swearing,  however,  will  do  it, 

Come,  bring  me  the  calendar,  pray — 
I  vow,  by  that  lip,  I'll  go  through  it, 

And  not  miss  a  saint  on  my  way. 
The  angels  shall  help  me  to  wheedle, 

I'll  swear  upon  every  one 
That  e'er  danc'd  on  the  point  of  a  needle*. 

Or  rode  on  a  beam  of  the  sun ! 

Oh!  why  should  Platonic  controul,  love 

Enchain  an  emotion  so  free? 
Your  soul,  though  a  very  sweet  soul,  love, 

Will  ne'er  be  sufficient  for  me. 
If  you  think  by  this  coldness  and  scorning, 

To  seem  more  angelic  and  bright, 
Be  an  angel,  rav  love,  in  the  morning, 

But,  oh!  be  a  woman  to  night! 


*  I  believe  Mr.  Little  alluded  here  to  a  famous  question  among 
the  early  schoolmen:  "  How  many  thousand  angels  could  dance 
"  on  the  point  of  a  very  fine  needle,  without  jostling  one  another?"' 
If  he  could  have  been  thinking  of  the  schools,  while  he  was  writ- 
ing this  song,  we  cannot  say  "  canit  inductum"  E. 

2    I. 


TO  ROSA. 


LIKE  one  who  trusts  to  summer  skies, 
And  puts  his  little  bark  to  see, 

Is  he,  who  lar'd  by  smiling  eyes, 
Consigns  his  simple  heart  to  thee. 

For  fickle  is  the  summer  wind, 
And  sadly  may  the  bark  be  tost: 

For  thou  art  sure  to  change  thy  mind, 
And  then  the  wretched  heart  is  lost! 


TO  ROSA. 


OH  I  why  should  the  girl  of  my  soul  be  in  tears 

At  a  meeting  of  rapture  like  this, 
When  the  glooms  of  the  past  and  the  sorrow  of  years 

Have  been  paid  by  a  moment  of  bliss? 

Are  they  shed  for  that  moment  of  blissful  delight, 

Which  dwells  on  her  memory  yet? 
Do  they  flow,  like  the  dews  of  the  amorous  night, 

From  the  warmth  of  the  sun  that  has  set? 

Oh  I  sweet  is  the  tear  on  that  languishing  smile, 

That  smile  which  is  loveliest  then  ; 
And  if  such  are  the  drops  that  delight  can  beguile, 

Thou  shalt  weep  them  again  and  again! 


RONDEAU. 


"  GOOD  night!  good  night!" — and  is  it  so, 

And  must  I  from  my  Rosa  go  ? 

Oh!   Rosa,  say  "  Good  night!"  once  more, 

And  I'll  repeat  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

Till  the  first  glance  of  dawning  light 

Shall  find  us  saying,  still  "  Good  night !" 

And  still  "  Good  night!"  my  Rosa  say — 
But  whisper  still  "  A  minute  stay;" 
And  I  will  stay,  and  every  minute 
Shall  have  an  age  of  rapture  in  it ! 
We'll  kiss  and  kiss  in  quick  delight, 
And  murmur,  while  we  kiss,  "  Good  night!" 


69 

44  Good  night!"  you'll  murmur  with  a  sigh, 
And  tell  me  it  is  time  to  fly: 
And  I  will  vow  to  kiss  no  more, 
Yet  kiss  you  closer  than  before, 
Till  slumber  seal  our  weary  sight, 
And  then  my  love !  my  soul !  Good  night ! 


AN  ARGUMENT 


ANY  PHYLLIS  OR  CHLOE. 


I'VE  oft  been  told  by  learned  friars, 
That  wishing  and  the  crime  are  one, 

And  Heaven  punishes  desires 

As  much  as  if  the  deed  were  done. 

If  wishing  damns  us,  you  and  I 

Are  damn'd  to  all  our  heart's  content; 

Come,  then,  at  least  we  may  enjov 
Some  pleasure  for  our  punishment ! 


TO  ROSA. 


WRITTEN    DURING    ILLNESS. 


THE  wisest  soul,  by  anguish  torn, 
Will  soon  unlearn  the  lore  it  knew ; 

And  when  the  shrining  casket's  worn, 
The  gem  within  will  tarnish  too! 

But  love's  an  essence  of  the  soul 

Which  sinks  not  with  this  chain  of  clav; 

Which  throbs  beyond  the  chill  controul 
Of  withering  pain  or  pale  decay. 

And  surely  when  the  touch  of  Death 
Dissolves  the  spirit's  mortal  ties, 

Love  still  attends  the  soaring  breath, 
And  makes  it  purer  for  the  skies! 


72 

Oh!  Rosa,  when,  to  seek  its  sphere, 
My  soul  shall  leave  this  orb  of  men, 

That  love  it  found  so  blissful  here, 
Shall  be  its  best  of  blisses  then! 

And,  as  in  fabled  dreams  of  old, 
Some  airy  genius,  child  of  time, 

Presided  o'er  each  star  that  roll'd 

And  track'd  it  through  its  path  sublime  ; 

So  thou,  fair  planet,  not  unled, 

Shalt  through  thy  mortal  orbit  stray; 

Thy  lover's  shade,  divinely  wed, 

Shall  linger  round  thy  wandering  way. 

Let  other  spirits  range  the  sky, 
And  brighten  in  the  solar  gem ; 

I'll  bask  beneath  that  lucid  eye, 
Nor  envy  worlds  of  suns  to  them! 

And,  oh !  if  airy  shapes  may  steal, 
To  mingle  with  a  mortal  frame, — 

Then,  then,  my  love! — but  drop  the  veil ; 
Hide,  hide  from  Heav'n  the  unholy  flame 


72 


No! — when  that  heart  shall  cease  to  beat, 
And  when  that  breath  at  length  is  free; 

Then,  Rosa,  soul  to  soul  we'll  meet, 
And  mingle  to  eternity! 


ANACREONTIQUE. 


-in  lachrymas  verterat  omne  merum. 

Tibullus,  Lie.  r.  Eleg.  v 


PRESS  the  grape  and  let  it  pour 
Around  the  board  its  purple  shower; 
And  while  the  drops  my  goblet  steep, 
I'll  think — in  woe  the  clusters  weep. 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  my  pouting  vine ! 
Heav'n  grant  no  tears,  but  tears  of  wine. 
Weep  on,  and  as  thy  sorrows  flow, 
I'll  taste  the  luxury  of  xvoc! 


ANACREONTIQUE. 


FRIEND  of  my  soul!  this  goblet  sip, 

'Twill  chase  that  pensive  tear; 
'Tis  not  so  sweet  as  woman's  lip. 
But,  oh!  'tis  more  sincere. 
Like  her  delusive  beam, 

'Twill  steal  away  thy  mind; 
But,  like  Affection's  dream, 
It  leaves  no  sting  behind ! 

Come,  twine  the  wreath,  thy  brows  to  shade, 

These  flowers  were  cull'd  at  noon ; 
Like  woman's  love  the  rose  will  fade, 
But,  ah!  not  half  so  soon! 

For,  though  the  flower's  decay'd, 

Its  fragrance  is  not  o'er; 
But  once  when  love's  betray'd, 
The  heart  can  bloom  no  more! 


Neither  do  I  condemn  tliee  ;  go,  and  sin  no  mere. 

St.  John,  Chap.  <ci 


OH  I  woman,  if  by  simple  wile 

Thy  soul  has  stray'd  from  honour's  track. 
'Tis  mercy  only  can  beguile, 

By  gentle  ways,  the  wanderer  back. 

The  stain  that  on  thy  virtue  lies, 
Wash'd  by  thy  tears,  may  yet  decay, 

As  clouds  that  sully  morning  skies 
May  all  be  wept  in  showers  away. 

Go,  go — be  innocent,  and  live — 

The  tongues  of  men  may  wound  thee  sore; 
But  Ileav'n  in  pity  can  forgive, 

And  bids  thee  "  go  and  sin  no  morel" 


LOVE  AND  MARRIAGE. 


Eque  brevi  verbo  ferre  perenne  malum.      Secuxdus,  Eleg.  7 


STILL  the  question  I  must  parry, 
Still  a  wayward  truant  prove ; 

Where  I  love,  I  must  not  marry, 
Where  I  marry,  cannot  love. 

Were  she  fairest  of  creation, 

With  the  least  presuming  mind; 

Learned  without  affectation, 
Not  deceitful,  yet  refined; 

Wise  enough,  but  never  rigid; 

Gay,  but  not  too  lightlv  free: 

Chaste  as  snow,  and  yet  not  frigid; 

Warm,  yet  satisfied  with  me: 
2  r 


78 

Were  she  all  this  ten  times  over, 
All  that  Heav'n  to  earth  allows; 

I  should  he  too  much  her  lover, 
Ever  to  become  her  spouse. 

Love  will  never  bear  enslaving, 
Summer  garments  suit  him  best; 

Bliss  itself  is  not  worth  having, 
If  we're  by  compulsion  blest. 


THE  KISS. 


Ilia  nisi  in  lecto  nusquam  potuere  docerl. 

Ovid,  Lib.  ii.  Eleg,  v. 


GIVE  me,  my  love,  that  billing  kiss, 

I  taught  you  one  delicious  night, 
When,  turning  epicures  in  bliss, 

We  tried  inventions  of  delight. 

Come,  gently  steal  my  lips  along, 

And  let  your  lips  in  murmurs  move. — 

Ah!  no — again — that  kiss  was  wrong, — 
How  can  you  be  so  dull,  my  love? 

"  Cease,  cease!"  the  blushing  girl  replied, 
And  in  her  milky  arms  she  caught  me — 
"  How  can  you  thus  your  pupil  chide? 
"  You  know  ''tzvas  in  the  dark  you  taught  me !" 


TO  MISS. 


ON    HER    ASKING    THE    AUTHOR,    WHY    SHE    HAD    SLEEPLESS 
NIGHTS ] 


I'LL  ask  the  sylph  who  round  thee  flies, 
And  in  thy  breath  his  pinion  dips, 

Who  suns  him  in  thy  lucent  eyes, 
And  faints  upon  thy  sighing  lips ; 

I'll  ask  him  where's  the  veil  of  sleep 
That  us'd  to  shade  thy  looks  of  light ; 

And  why  those  eyes  their  vigil  keep, 
When  other  suns  are  sunk  in  night. 

And  I  will  say — her  angel  breast 

Has  never  throbb'd  with  guilty  sting; 

Her  bosom  is  the  sweetest  nest, 

Where  Slumber  tould  repose  his  wing! 


81 

And  I  will  say — her  cheeks  of  fla'me, 
Which  glow  like  roses  in  the  sun, 

Have  never  felt  a  blush  of  shame, 
Except  for  what  her  eyes  have  done! 

Then  tell  me,  why,  thou  child  of  air! 

Does  slumber  from  her  eyelids  rove? 
What  is  her  heart's  impassion'd  care? 

Perhaps,  oh  sylph!  perhaps  'tis  love ! 


NONSENSE. 


GOOD  reader!  if  you  e'er  have  seen, 

When  Phoebus  hastens  to  his  pillow, 
The  mermaids,  with  their  tresses  green. 

Dancing  upon  the  western  billow: 
If  you  have  seen,  at  twilight  dim, 
When  the  lone  spirit's  v*  sper  hvmn 

Floats  wild  along  the  western  shore: 
If  you  have  seen,  through  mist  of  eve, 
The  lairy  train  their  ringlets  weave, 
Glancing  along  the  spangled  green: 

If  you  have  seen  all  this,  and  more, 
God  bless  me!  what  a  deal  you've  seen! 


TO  JULIA. 


ON    HER    BIRTH-DAY. 


WHEN  Time  was  entwining  the  garlan^  of  years, 
Which  to  crown  my  beloved  was  given ; 

Though  some  of  the  leaves  might  be  sullied  with  tears, 
Yet  the  flow'rs  were  all  gather'd  in  heaven! 

And  long  may  this  garland  be  sweet  to  the  eye, 

May  its  verdure  forever  be  new; 
Young  Love  shall  enrich  it  with  many  a  sigh, 

And  Pitv  shall  nui'se  it  with  dew  1 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS*. 


HOW  sweetly  could  I  lay  my  head 
Within  the  cold  grave's  silent  breast. 

Where  sorrow's  tears  no  more  are  shed. 
No  more  the  ills  of  life  molest. 

for,  ah!  my  heart,  how  very  soon 
The  glittering  dreams  of  youth  are  past! 

And,  long  before  it  reach  its  noon, 
The  sun  of  life  is  overcast. 

•  This  poem  and  some  others  of  the  same  pensive  cast,  we  may 
suppose,  were  the  result  of  the/™  melancholy  moments  which  a 
life  so  short  and  so  pleasant  as  that  of  the  author  could  have  al- 
lowed.         E. 


TO  ROSA. 


A  far  conserva,  e  cumulo  d'amanti.   Pastor  Fido. 


AND  are  youthen  a  thing  of  art, 
Seducing  all,  and  loving  none? 

And  have  I  strove  to  gain  a  heart 

Which  every  coxcomb  thinks  his  own? 

And  do  you,  like  the  dotard's  fire, 
Which,  powerless  of  enjoving  any, 

Feeds  its  abortive,   sick  desire, 
By  trifling  impotent  with  many; 

Do  you  thus  seek  to  flirt  a  number, 

And  through  a  round  of  danglers  run, 

Because  your  heart  s  insipid  slumber 

Could  never  wake  to  feci  for  one? 
G 


86 

Tell  me  at  once  if  this  be  true, 

And  I  shall  calm  my  jealous  breast, 

Shall  learn  to  join  the  dangling  crew, 
And  share  your  simpers  with  the  rest. 

But  if  your  heart  be  not  so  free, 
Oh  !  if  another  share  that  heart, 

Tell  not  the  damning  tale  to  me, 
But  mingle  mercy  with  your  art. 

I'd  rather  think  you  black  as  hell, 
Than  find  you  to  be  all  divine, 

And  know  that  heart  could  love  so  well, 
Yet  know  that  heart  would  not  be  mine  ! 


LOVE  IN  A  STORM. 


Quam  juvat  immites  ventos  nudire  cubantem, 
Et  dominam  tencro  continuissc  sinu. 

Tiuui.i.r 


LOUD  sung  the  wind  in  the  ruins  above, 

Which  murmur' d  thewarningsof  Time  o'er  our  head; 

While  fearless  we  offer' d  devotions  to  love, 

The  rude  rock  our  pillow,  the  rushes  our  bed ! 

Damp  was  the  chill  of  the  wintery  air, 

But  it  made  us  cling  closer,  and  warmly  unite ; 

Dread  was  the  lightning,  and  horrid  its  glare, 
But  it  show'd  me  my  Julia  in  languid  delight. 

To  my  bosom  she  nestled,   and  felt  not  a  fear, 

Though  the-shower  did  beat,  and  the  tempest  did  frown; 
Her  sighs  were  as  sweet,   and  her  murmurs  as  dear, 
As  if  she  lav  lulfd  on  a  pillow  of  down! 


SONG. 


JESSY  on  a  bank  was  sleeping, 
A  flower  beneath  her  bosom  lay; 

Love,  upon  her  slumber  creeping, 
Stole  the  flower,  and  flew  away! 

Pity,  then,  poor  Jessy's  ruin, 

Who,  becalm'd  by  Slumber's  wing, 

Never  felt  what  love  was  doing — 
Never  dreanvd  of  such  a  thing! 


THE  SURPRISE. 


CHLORIS,  I  swear  by  all  I  ever  swore, 
That  from  this  hour  I  shall  not  love  thee  more. — 
"  What!  love  no  more?   Oh!  why  this  alter'd  vow?" 
Because  I  cannot  love  thee  more  than  now! 


2    G 


TO  A  SLEEPING  MAID. 


WAKE,  my  life!  thy  lover's  arms 
Are  twin'd  around  thy  sleeping  charms : 
Wake,  my  love,  and  let  desire 
Kindle  those  opening  orbs  of  fire. 

Yet,  sweetest,  though  the  bliss  delight  thee. 
If  the  guilt,  the  shame  affright  thee, 
Still  those  orbs  in  darkness  keep ; 
Sleep,  my  girl,  or  seem  to  sleep. 


TO  PHYLLIS. 


PHYLLIS,  you  little  rosy  rake, 
That  heart  of  yours  I  long  to  rifle ; 

Come,  give  it  me,  and  do  not  make 
So  much  ado  about  a  trifle! 


SONG. 


WHEN  the  heart's  feeling 
Burns  with  concealing, 
Glances  will  tell  what  we  fear  to  confess : 
Oh!  what  an  anguish 
Silent  to  languish, 
Could  we  not  look  all  we  wish  to  express  ! 

When  half-expiring, 

Restless,  desiring, 
Lovers  wish  something,  but  must  not  say  what, 

Looks  tell  the  wanting, 

Looks  tell  the  granting, 
Looks  betray  all  that  the  heart  would  be  at. 


A  BALLAD*. 


THOU  hast  sent  me  a  flowery  band, 
And  told  me  'twas  fresh  from  the  field; 

That  the  leaves  were  untouch'd  by  the  hand ; 
And  the  purest  of  odours  would  yield. 

And  indeed  it  is  fragrant  and  fair; 

But,  if  it  were  handled  by  thee, 
It  would  bloom  with  a  livelier  air, 

And  would  surely  be  sweeter  to  me! 

Then  take  it,  and  let  it  entwine 

Thy  tresses,  so  flowing  and  bright ; 

And  each  little  flowret  will  shine 
More  rich  than  a  gem  to  my  sight. 


*  This  ballad  was  probably  suggested  by  the  following  epi- 
gram in  Martial : 

Intactas  quare  mittis  mihi,  Polla,  coronas, 

A  te  vexatas  malo  tenere  rosas.  Eplg-  xc-  Lib.  ii. 

E. 


94 

Let  the  odorous  gale  of  thy  breath 
Embalm  it  with  many  a  sigh; 

Nay,  let  it  be  wither'd  to  death 

Beneath  the  warm  noon  of  thine  eye. 

And,  instead  of  the  dew  that  it  bears, 
The  dew  dropping  fresh  from  the  tree; 

On  its  leaves  let  me  number  the  tears 
That  affection  has  stolen  from  thee! 


TO  MRS. 


ON  HER  BEAUTIFUL  TRANSLATION  OF 


VOlTURE's  KISS. 


Mon  ame  sur  ma  levre  etoit  lors  toute  entiere, 
Pour  savourer  le  miel  qui  sur  la  votre  etoit ; 

Mais  en  me  retirant,  elle  resta  derriere, 
Tant  de  ce  doux  plaisir  l'amorce  l'arrestoit. 

Voiture, 


How  heav'nly  was  the  poet's  doom, 
To  breathe  his  spirit  through  a  kiss ; 

And  lose  within  so  sweet  a  tomb 
The  trembling  messenger  of  bliss  ! 

And,  ah!  his  soul  return'd  to  feel 
That  it  again  could  ravish' d  be; 

For  in  the  kiss  that  thou  didst  steal, 
His  life  and  soul  have  fled  to  thee! 


TO  A  LADY. 


OK  HER.  SINGING. 


THY  song  has  taught  my  heart  to  feel 

Those  soothing  thoughts  of  heavenly  love, 

Which  o'er  the  sainted  spirits  steal, 
When  listening  to  the  spheres  above ! 

When,  tir'd  of  life  and  misery, 
I  wish  to  sigh  my  latest  breath, 

Oh!   Emma,  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

And  thou  shalt  sing  me  into  death ! 

And,  if  along  thy  lip  and  check 

That  smile  of  heav'nly  softness  play, 

Which  ah!   forgive  a  heart  that's  weak. 
So  oft  has  stol'n  mv  mind  awav; 


97 


Thou'lt  seem  an  angel  of  the  sky, 
That  comes  to  charm  me  into  bliss ; 

I'll  gaze  and  die — who  would  not  die, 
If  death  were  half  so  sweet  as  this? 


A  DREAM. 


I  THOUGHT  this  heart  consuming  la> 
On  Cupid's  burning  shrine  ; 

I  thought  he  stole  thy  heart  away, 
And  plac'd  it  near  to  mine. 

I  saw  thy  heart  begin  to  melt, 
Like  ice  before  the  sun, 

Till  both  a  glow  congenial  felt,. 
And  mingled  into  one  ! 


WRITTEN  IN  A  COMPtfON-PLACE  BOOK, 


«  THE  BOOK  OF  FOLLIES," 


TO   WHICH     EVERY    ONE    THAT    OPENED    IT    SHOULD 
CONTRIBUTE   SOMETHING. 


TO  THE  BOOK  OF  FOLLIES. 

THIS  tribute's  from  a  wretched  elf, 
Who  hails  thee,  emblem  of  him  self  I 
The  book  of  life,  which  I  have  trac'd, 
Has  been,  like  thee,  a  motley  waste 
Of  follies,  scribbled  o'er  and  o'er, 
One  folly  bringing  hundreds  more. 
Some  have  indeed  been  writ  so  neat, 
In  characters  so  fair,   so  sweet, 
That  those,  who  judge  not  too  severely, 
Have  said  they  lov'd  such  follies  dearly  ! 
Yet  still,  oh!   book,  the  allusion  stands, 
For  these  were  penn'd  by  female  hands; 


100 

The  rest,  alas !  I  own  the  truth, 
Have  all  been  scribbled  so  uncouth, 
That  Prudence,  with  a  withering  look, 
Disdainful  flings  again  the  book! 
Like  thine,  its  pages  here  and  there 
Have  oft  been  stain'd  with  blots  oi  care ; 
And,  sometimes,  hours  of  peace,  I  own, 
Upon  some  fairer  leaves  have  shone, 
White  as  the  snowings  of  that  heaven, 
By  which  those  hours  of  peace  were  given. 
But  now  no  longer — such,  oh !  such 
The  blast  of  Disappointment's  touch! 
No  longer  now  those  hours  appear; 
Each  leaf  is  sullied  by  a  tear; 
Blank,  blank  is  every  page  with  care, 
Not  ev'n  a  folly  brightens  there ! 
Will  they  yet  brighten? — Never,  never! 
Then  shut  the  booky  oh  God!  for  ever! 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  SAME. 


PRETTY  LITTLE  MRS. 


IMPROMPTU. 


THIS  journal  of  folly's  an  emblem  of  me, 
But  what  book  shall  we  find  emblematic  of  thee? 
*  Oh!  shall  we  not  say  thou  art  Love's  duodecimo? 
None  can  be  prettier,  few  can  be  less,  you  know. 
Such  a  volume  in  sheets  were  a  volume  of  charms, 
Or  if  bound,  it  should  onlv  be  bound  in  our  arms! 


SONG. 


DEAR!  in  pity  do  not  speak, 
In  your  eyes  I  read  it  all, 

In  the  flushing  of  your  cheek, 
In  those  tears  that  fall, 

Yes,  yes,  my  soul !  I  see 

You  love,  you  live  for  only  me  ! 

Beam,  yet  beam  that  killing  eye 
Bid  me  expire  in  luscious  pain; 

But  kiss  me,  kiss  me  while  I  die, 
And  oh !  I  live  again  ! 

Still,  my  love,  with  looking  kill, 

And  oh!  revive  with  kisses  still! 


THE  TEAR. 


ON  beds  of  snow  the  moonbeam  slept, 
And  chilly  was  the  midnight  gloom, 

When  by  the  damp  grave  Ellen  wept ; 
Sweet  maid!  it  was  her  Lindor's  tomb. 

A  warm  tear  gush'd,  the  wintery  air 
Congeal'd  it  as  it  flow'd  away: 

All  night  it  lav  an  ice-drop  there, 
At  morn  it  glitter'd  in  the  ray! 

An  angel,  wandering  from  her  sphere, 
Who  saw  this  bright,  this  frozen  gem, 

To  dew-ey'd  Pity  brought  the  tear, 
And  hung  it  on  her  diadem! 


TO 


In  bono  cur  quisquam  tertius  ista  venit?  Ovu 


SO  Rosa  turns  her  back  on  me, 

Thou  walking  monument!  for  thee, 

Whose  visage,  like  a  grave-stone  scribbled, 

With  vanity  bedaub'd,  befribbled, 

Tells  only  to  the  reading  eye, 

That  underneath  corrupting  lie 

Within  thy  heart's  contagious  tomb, 

(As  in  a  cemetery's  gloom) 

Suspicion,  rankling  to  infection, 

And  all  the  worms  of  black  reflection! 


105 

And  thou  art  Rose's  dear  elect, 

And  thou  hast  won  the  lovely  trifle  j 

And  I  must  bear  repulse,  neglect, 
And  I  must  all  my  anguish  stifle : 

While  thou  for  ever  linger'st  nigh, 

Scowling,  muttering,  gloating,  mumming, 

Like  some  sharp,  busy,  fretful  fly, 
About  a  twinkling  taper  humming 


TO   JULIA 


WEEPING. 


OH1  if  your  tears  are  given  to  care, 
If  real  woe  disturbs  your  peace, 

Come  to  my  bosom,  weeping  fair! 
And  I  will  bid  your  weeping  cease. 

But  if  wi  ::  fancy's  vision'd  fears, 

With        ams  of  woe  your  bosom  thrill; 

You  1-  lovely  in  yr..:  tears, 

Th      L  m:.       ;id  you  drop  them  still  1 


SONG. 


HAVE  you  not  seen  the  timid  tear 

Steal  trembling  from  mine  eye  ? 
Have  you  not  mark'd  the  flush  of  fear, 

Or  caught  the  murmur'd  sigh? 
And  can  you  think  my  love  is  chill, 

Nor  fix'd  on  you  alone? 
And  can  you  rend,  by  doubting  still, 

A  heart  so  much  your  own? 

To  you  my  soul's  affections  move 

Devoutly,  warmly  true; 
My  life  has  been  a  task  of  love, 

One  long,  long  thought  of  you. 
If  all  your  tender  faith  is  o'er, 

If  still  my  truth  you'll  try, 
Alas!   I  know  but  one  proof  more, 

I'll  bless  your  name,  and  die! 


THE  SHIELD*. 


OH!  did  you  not  hear  a  voice  of  death? 

And  did  you  not  mark  the  paly  form 
Which  rode  on  the  silver  mist  of  the  heath, 

And  sung  a  ghostly  dirge  in  the  storm? 

Was  it  a  wailing  bird  of  the  gloom, 

Which  shrieks  on  the  house  of  woe  all  night? 

Or  a  shivering  fiend,  that  flew  to  a  tomb, 
To  howl  and  to  feed  till  the  glance  of  light? 

'Twas  not  the  death-bird's  cry  from  the  wood, 
Nor  shivering  fiend  that  hung  in  the  blast; 

'Twas  the  shade  of  Hekleric — man  of  blood — 
It  screams  for  the  guilt  of  days  that  are  past! 

*This  poem  is  perfectly  in  the  taste  of  the  present  day— 
«'  his  nam  plebecula  gaudet."     E. 


109 

See !  how  the  red,  red  lightning  strays, 
And  scares  the  gliding  ghosts  of  the  heath ! 
Now  on  the  leafless  yew  it  plays, 
Where  hangs  the  shield  of  this  son  of  death! 

That  shield  is  blushing  with  murderous  stains, 
Long  has  it  hung  from  the  cold  yew's  spray; 
It  is  bh  wn  by  storms,  and  wash'd  by  rains, 
But  neither  can  take  the  blood  away! 

Oft  by  that  yew,  on  the  blasted  field, 

Demons  dance  to  the  red  moon's  light, 

While  the  damp  boughs  creak,  and  the  swinging  shield 

Sings  to  the  raving  spirit  of  night ! 


TO  MRS. 


YES,  Heav'n  can  witness  how  I  strove 
To  love  thee  with  a  spirit's  love ; 
To  make  thy  purer  wish  my  own, 
And  mingle  with  thy  mind  alone. 
Oh!   I  appeal  to  those  pure  dreams 
In  which  my  soul  has  hung  on  thee, 
And  I've  forgot  thy  witching  form, 
And  I've  forgot  the  liquid  beams 
That  eye  effuses  thrilling  warm — 
Yes,  ves,  forgot  each  sensual  charm, 
Each  mad'ning  spell  of  luxury, 
That  could  seduce  my  soul's  desires, 
And  bid  it  throb  with  guiltier  fires. 
Such  was  my  love,  and  many  a  time, 
When  sleep  has  giv'n  thee  to  my  breast, 
And  thou  hast  seem'd  to  share  the  crime, 
Which  made  thy  lover  wildly  blest; 


Ill 

Ev'n  then,    in  all  that  rich  delusion, 

When,  by  voluptuous  visions  fir'd, 

My  soul  in  rapture's  warm  confusion, 

Has  on  a  phantom's  lip  expir'd! 

Ev'n  then  some  purer  thoughts  would  steal 

Amid  my  senses'  warm  excess, 

And  at  the  monent — oh!  ev'n  then 

I've  started  from  thy  melting  press, 

And  blush  for  all  I've  dar'd  to  feel, 

Yet  sigh'd  to  feel  it  all  again ! 

Such  was  my  love,  and  still,  oh!  still 

I  might  have  calm'd  the  unholy  thrill; 

My  heart  might  be  a  taintless  shrine 

And  thou  its  votive  saint  should  be  j 

There,  there  I'd  make  thee  all  divine, 

Myself  divine  in  honouring  thee. 

But  oh!  that  night,  that  fatal  night 

When,  both  bewilder'd,  both  betrav'd, 

We  sunk  beneath  the  flow  of  soul, 

Which  for  a  moment  mock'd  control, 

And  on  the  dangerous  kiss  delay'd, 

And  almost  yielded  to  delight! 

God!  how  I  wish'd,  in  that  wild  hour, 

That  lips  alone,  thus  stamp'd  with  heat 

Had  for  a  moment  all  the  power 

To  make  our  souls  effusing  meet! 


112 

That  we  might  mingle  by  the  breath 
In  all  of  love's  delicious  death; 
And  in  a  kiss  at  once  be  blest, 
As,  oh!   we  trembled  at  the  rest! 
Pity  me,  love,   I'll  pity  thee, 
If  thou  indeed  hast  felt  like  me! 
All,  all  my  bosom's  peace  is  o'er. 
At  night,  which  was  my  hour  of  calm, 
When  from  the  page  of  classic  lore, 
From  the  pure  fount  of  ancient  lav, 
My  soul  has  drawn  the  placid  balm, 
Which  charm'd  its  little  griefs  away; 
Ah!  there  I  find  that  balm  no  more. 
Those  spells,  which  makes  us  oft  forget 
The  fleeting  troubles  of  the  day, 
In  deeper  sorrows  only  whet 
The  stings  they  cannot  tear  away. 
When  to  my  pillow  rack'd  I  fly 
\.  I'j.i  i/erii'u-d  sense  and  wakeful  eve, 
While  my  brain  maddens,  where,  oh!   where 
3  s  that  serene,   consoling  pray'r 
Which  once  has  harbinger'd  mv  rest, 
Wlu:n  the  still,   soothing  voice  of  Heaven 
Has  seem'cl  to  whisper  in  my  breast, 
vt  Sleep  on,  thy  errors  are  forgiven!1' 
No,  though  I  still  in  semblance  pray, 
Mv  thoughts  are  wandering  far  away, 


113 


And  ev'n  the  name  of  Deity 

Is  murmur' cl  out  in  sighs  for  thee  !* 


*  This  irregular  recurrence  of  the  rhymes  is  adopted  from  the 
light  poetry  of  the  French,  and  is,  I  think,  particularly  suited  to 
express  the  varieties  of  feeling.  In  gentler  emotions  the  verse  may 
flow  periodic  and  regular;  and  in  the  transition  to  violent  passion, 
can  assume  all  the  animated  abruptness  of  blank  verse.  Besides, 
by  dispensing  with  the  limits  of  distich  and  stanza,  it  allows  an 
interesting  suspension  of  the  sentiment.     E. 


I   2 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 


SUPPOSED    TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  JULIA, 


OX  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  BROTHER. 


THOUGH  sorrow  long  has  worn  my  heart, 
Though  every  day  I've  counted  o'er, 

Has  brought  a  new  and  quick'ning  smart 
To  wounds  that  rankled  fresh  before; 

Though  in  my  earliest  life  bereft 

Of  many  a  link  by  nature  tied; 
Though  hope  deceiv'd,   and  pleasure  left; 

Though  friends  betray'd,  and  foes  belied; 

I  still  had  hopes — for  hope  will  stay 

After  the  sunset  of  delight, 
So  like  the  star  which  ushers  day, 

We  scarce  can  think  it  heralds  night ! 


115 

1  hop'd  that,  after  all  its  strife, 

My  weary  heart  at  length  should  rest, 

And,  fainting  from  the  waves  of  life, 
Find  harbour  in  a  brother's  breast. 

That  brother's  breast  was  warm  with  truth, 
Was  bright  with  honour's  purest  ray; 

He  was  the  dearest,  gentlest  youth — 
Oh !  why  then  was  he  torn  away  ? 

He  should  have  stay'd,  have  linger' d  here, 
To  calm  his  Julia's  every  woe  ; 

He  should  have  chas'd  each  bitter  tear, 
And  not  have  caus'd  those  tears  to  flow. 

We  saw  his  youthful  soul  expand 

In  blooms  of  genius,  nurs'd  by  taste  ; 

While  Science,  with  a  fostering  hand, 
Upon  his  brow  her  chaplet  plac'd. 

We  saw  his  gradual  op'ning  mind 
Enrich'd  by  all  the  graces  dear; 

Enlighten'd,  social,  and  refin'd, 
In  friendship  firm,  in  love  sincere. 


116 

Such  was  the  youth  we  lov'd  so  well, 
Such  were  the  hopes  that  fate  denied — 

We  lov'd,  but  ah !  we  could  not  tell 
How  deep,  how  dearly,  till  he  died  ! 

Close  as  the  fondest  links  could  strain, 
Twin'd  with  my  very  heart  he  grew; 

And  by  that  fate  which  breaks  the  chain, 
The  heart  is  almost  broken  too  ! 


FANNY  OF  TIMMOL. 


A   MAIL-COACH    AtSVENTURE. 


Quadrigis  petimus  bene  vivcre.  Horace. 


Sweet  Fanny  of  Timmol!  when  first  you  came  in 
To  the  close  little  carriage  in  which  I  was  hurl'd, 
I  thought  to  myself,  if  it  were  not  a  sin, 
I  could  teach  you  the  prettiest  tricks  in  the  world. 

For  your  dear  little  lips,  to  their  destiny  true, 
Seem'd  to  know  they  were  born  for  the  use  of  another  j 
And  to  put  me  in  mind  of  what  I  ought  to  do, 
Were  eternally  biting  and  kissing  each  other  1 

And  then  you  were  darting  from  eyelids  so  sly, 
Half  open,  half  shutting,  such  tremulous  light: 
Let  them  say  what  they  will,  I  could  read  in  your  eye 
More  comical  things  than  I  ever  shall  write. 


118 

And  oft  as  we  mingled  our  legs  and  our  feet, 
I  felt  a  pulsation,  and  cannot  tell  whether 
In  yours  or  in  mine — but  I  know  it  was  sweet, 
And  I  think  we  both  felt  it  and  trembled  together! 

At  length  when  arriv'd  at  our  supper  we  sat, 
I  heard  with  a  sigh,  which  had  something  of  pain, 
That  perhaps  our  last  moment  of  meeting  was  that, 
And  Fanny  should  go  back  to  Timmol  again. 

Yet  I  swore  not  that  I  was  in  love  with  vou,  Funny, 
Oh!   no,  for  I  felt  it  could  never  be  true; 
I  but  said  what  I  've  said  very  often  to  many — 
There's  few  I  would  rather  be  kissing  than  you ; 

Then  first  did  I  learn  that  you  once  had  believ'd 
Some  lover,  the  dearest  and  falsest  of  men^ 
And  so  gently  you  spoke  of  the  youth  who  deceiv'd, 
That.  I  thought  you  perhaps  might  be  tempted  again, 

But  you  told  me,  that  passion  a  moment  amus'd 
Was  follow'd  too  oft  bv  an  age  of  repenting; 
And  check'd  me  so  softly,  that,  while  you  refuu'd, 
Forgive  me,  dear  girl,  if  I  thought  'twas  consenting! 


119 

And  still  I  entreated,  and  still  you  denied, 
Till  I  almost  was  made  to  believe  you  sincere ; 
Tho'  I  found  that,  in  bidding  me  leave  you,  you  sigh'd. 
And  when  you  repuls'd  me,  'twas  done  with  a  tear! 

In  vain  did  I  whisper  "There's  nobody  nigh'." 
In  vain  with  the  tremors  of  passion  implore  ; 
Your  excuse  was  a  kiss,  and  a  tear  your  reply — 
I  acknowledg'd  them  both,  and  I  ask'd  for  no  more. 

Was  I  right? — oh!  I  cannot  believe  I  was  wrong; 
Poor  Fanny  is  gone  back  to  Timmol  again, 
And  may  Providence  guide  her  uninjur'd  along, 
Nor  scatter  her  path  with  repentance  and  pain. 

By  Heav'n!  I  would  rather  forever  forswear 
The  elysium  that  dwells  on  a  beautiful  breast, 
Than  alarm  for  a  moment  the  peace  that  is  there, 
Or  banish  the  dove  from  so  hallow'd  a  nest! 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT. 


HOW  oft  a  cloud,  with  envious  veil 

Obscures  yon  bashful  light 
Which  seems  to  modestly  to  steal 

Along  the  waste  of  n  ight ! 

'Tis  thus  the  world's  obstrusive  wrongs 

Obscure  with  malice  keen 
Some  timid  heart,  which  only  longs 

To  live  and  die  unseen! 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 


Sic  juvat  perire. 


WHEN  wearied  wretches  sink  to  sleep, 
How  heavenly  soft  their  slumbers  lie! 

How  sweet  is  death  to  those  who  weep, 
To  those  who  weep  and  long  to  die ! 

Saw  you  the  soft  and  grass}'  bed, 

Where  flowrets  deck  the  green  earth's  breast 
'Tis  there  I  wish  to  lay  my  head, 

'Tis  there  I  wish  to  sleep  at  rest! 

Oh!  let  not  tears  embalm  mv  tomb, 
None  but  the  dews  bv  twilight  given! 

Oh!  let  not  sighs  disturb  the  gloom, 

None  but  the  whispering  winds  of  heaven' 

K 


THE  KISS, 


GROW   to  my  lip,  thou  sacred  kiss> 
On  which  my  soul's  beloved  swore 
That  there  should  come  a  time  of  bliss, 
When  she  would  mock  my  hopes  no  more ; 
And  fancy  shall  thy  glow  renew, 
In  sighs  at  morn,  and  dreams  at  night, 
And  none  shall  steal  thy  holy  dew 
Till  thou'rt  absolv'cl  by  rapture's  rite. 
Sweet  hours  that  are  to  make  me  blest, 
Oh!  fly,  like  breezes,  to  the  goal, 
And  let  my  love,  my  more  than  soul, 
Come  panting  to  this  fever'd  breast; 
And  while  in  every  glance  I  drink 
The  rich  o'erflowings  of  her  mind, 
Oh!  let  her  all  impassion'd  sink, 
In  sweet  abandonment  resign'd, 
Blushing  for  all  our  struggles  past, 
And  murmuring"  I  am  thine  at  last!" 


TO 


WITH  all  my  soul,  then,  let  us  part, 
Since  both  are  anxious  to  be  free; 

And  I  will  send  you  home  your  heart, 
If  you  will  send  back  mine  to  me. 

We've  had  some  happy  hours  together, 
But  joy  must  often  change  its  wing 

And  spring  would  be  but  gloomy  weather, 
If  we  had  nothing  else  but  spring. 

'Tis  not  that  I  expect  to  find 

A  more  devoted,  fond,  and  true  one, 

With  rosier  cheek  or  sweeter  mind — 
Enough  for  me,  that  she's  a  new  one. 

Thus  let  us  leave  the  bower  of  love, 
Where  we  have  loiter'd  long  in  bliss; 

And  you  may  down  that  path-way  rove, 
While  I  shall  take  my  way  through  this 


124 

Our  hearts  have  suffer'd  little  harm, 

In  this  short  fever  of  desire; 
You  have  not  lost  a  single  charm, 

Nor  I  one  spark  of  feeling  fire. 

My  kisses  have  not  stain'd  the  rose, 
Which  nature  hung  upon  your  lip; 

And  still  your  sigh  with  nectar  flows 
For  many  a  raptured  soul  to  sip. 

Fa:  ev/el!   and  when  some  other  fair 

Shall  call  your  wanderer  to  her  arms, 
i  vviii  '.-.  , ■■'•    ;u:-;ury  to  compare 
II;  r  s\:-.lls  uith  your  remember'd  charms. 

••  Thifa  cheek,"  I  '11  say,  "  is  not  so  bright 
"  As  one  that  us'd  to  meet  my  kiss; 

':  This  eye  has  not  such  liquid  light 
••  As  one  ihat  us'd  to  talk  of  bliss!" 

Farewell   and  when  some  future  lover 
SliuII  claim  the  heart,  which  I  resign, 

[  in  exulting  joys  discover 
All  the  charms,  that  once  were  mine  , 


12; 


I  think  I  should  be  sweetly  blest, 
If,  in  a  soft,  imperfect  sigh, 

You'd  say,  while  to  his  bosom  prest, 
He  loves  not  half  so  well  as  I ! 


K  2 


A  REFLECTION  AT  SEA. 


SEE  how,  beneath  the  moonbeam's  smile, 
Yon  little  billow  heaves  its  breast, 

And  foams  and  sparkles  lor  a  while, 
And  murmuring  then  subsides  to  rest, 

Thus  man,  the  spcrt  of  bliss  and  care, 
Rises  on  Time's  eventful  sea; 

And,  having  swell1  d  a  moment  there, 
Thus  melts  into  eternitv! 


AN  INVITATION  TO  SUPPER, 


TO  MRS. 


MYSELF,  dear  Julia,  and  the  sun 
Have  now  two  years  of  rambling  run, 
And  he,  before  his  wheels  has  driven 
The  grand  menagerie  of  Heaven; 
While  I  have  met  on  earth,  I  swear, 
As  many  brutes,  as  he  has  there  ; 
The  only  difPrence  I  can  see 
Betwixt  the  flaming  god  and  me, 
Is,  that  his  ways  are  periodic, 
And  mine,   I  fear,  are  simply  oddic. 
But,   dearest  girl,   'tis  now  a  lapse 
Of  two  short  years,  or  less  perhaps, 


128 

Since  you  to  me,  and  I  to  you, 

VovvM  to  be  ever  fondly  true  T 

Ah  !  Julia,  those  were  pleasant  times  ! 

You  lov'd  me  for  my  amorous  rhymes  ; 

And  I  lov'd  you,  because  I  thought 

'Twas  so  delicious  to  be  taught 

By  such  a  charming  guide  as  you, 

With  eyes  of  fire  and  lips  of  dew, 

All  I  had  often  fancied  o'er, 

But  never,  never  felt  before; 

The  day  flew  by,   and  night  was  short 

For  half  our  blisses,  half  our  sport! 

I  know  not  how  we  chang'd,  or  why, 
Or  if  the  first  was  you  or  I ; 
Yet  so  'tis  now,  we  meet  each  other, 
And  I  'm  no  more  than  Julia's  brother, 
While  she's  so  like  my  prudent  sister, 
There's  few  would  think  how  close  I  Ye  kist 

But,  Julia,  let  those  matters  pass  : 
If  you  will  brim  a  sparkling  rlass 
To  vanish'd  hours  of  true  delight, 
Come  to  me,  after  dusk,  to-night. 
I'll  have  no  other  guest  to  mec '.  }  ou, 
But  here  alone  I  '11  tete-a-tete  vou 


129 

Over  a  little  attic  feast, 
As  full  of  cordial  soul,  at  least, 
As  those  where  Delia  met  Tibullus, 
Or  Lesbia  wanton'd  with  Catullus* 

I'll  sing  you  many  a  roguish  sonnet 
About  it,   at  it,   and  upon  it ; 
And  songs,  address'd  as  if  I  lov'd, 
To  all  the  girls,  with  whom  I've  rov"d. 
Come,  pr'y  thee  come,  you'll  find  me  here, 
Like  Horace,  waiting  for  his  dearf. 
There  shall  not  be,  to  night,  on  earth, 
Two  souls  more  elegant  in  mirth; 
And  though  our  hey-dey  passion's  fied, 
The  spirit  of  the  love  that's  dead 
Shall  hover  wanton  o'er  our  head, 
Like  souls,  that  round  the  grave  will  fly, 
Li  which  the  late  possessors  lie; 
And  who,   my  pi\  tty  Tuba,  knows, 
But  when  our  warm  remembrance  glows 
'x'hr  '■':o\t  of  Love  may  act  anew 
W!  ;it  Love  xv.'u-;:  Ih.hi?  us'd  to  do! 


*  Com  urn,  non  pi. it:  c;radkH  pvicllu. 

C\'rur.i.i;s,  Cjirm.   xi 

vO    iv?:l       •  in     ■r.v.  Horacf.,    Lib.   '.  Sat.  5. 


AN  ODE  UPON  MORNING, 


TURN  to  me,  love  !  the  morning  rays 
Are  glowing  o'er  thy  languid  charms; 

Take  one  luxurious,  parting  gaze, 
While  yet  I  linger  in  thine  arms. 

'Twas  long  before  the  noon  of  night 
I  stole  into  thy  bosom,  dear! 

And  now  the  glance  of  dawning  light 
Has  found  me  still  in  dalliance  here. 

Turn  to  me,  love!  the  trembling  gleams 
Of  morn  along  thy  white  neck  stray; 

Away,  away,  you  envious  beams, 
I'll  chase  you  with  my  lips  away  I 


131 

Oh !  is  it  not  divine  to  think, 

While  all  around  were  lull'd  in  night, 
While  even  the  planets  seem'd  to  wink, 

We  kept  our  vigils  of  delight! 

The  heart,  that  little  world  of  ours, 
Unlike  the  drowsy  world  of  care, 

Then,  then  awak'd  its  sweetest  pow'rs, 
And  all  was  animation  therei 

Kiss  me  once  more,  and  then  I  fly, 
Our  parting  would  to  noon-day  last; 

Then  close  that  languid,  trembling  eye, 
And  sweetly  dream  of  all  the  past! 

As  soon  as  night  shall  fix  her  seal 
Upon  the  eyes  and  lips  of  men, 

Oh,  dearest !  I  will  panting  steal 
To  nestle  in  thine  arms  again ! 

Our  joys  shall  take  their  stolen  flight, 
Secret  as  those  celestial  spheres, 

Which  make  sweet  music  all  the  night 
Unheard  by  drowsy  mortal  cars  ! 


SONG*. 


OH!  nothing  in  life  can  sadden  us, 

While  we  have  wine  and  good  humour  in  store , 
With  this,  and  a  little  of  love  to  madden  us, 

Show  me  the  fool  that  can  labour  for  more ! 
Come  then,  bid  Ganymede  fill  every  bowl  for  you, 

Fill  them  up  brimmers,  and  drink  as  I  call; 
I  'm  going  to  toast  every  nymph  of  my  soul  for  you 

Ay,  on  my  soul,  I  'm  in  love  with  them  all! 

,  Dear  creatures!  we  can't  live  without  them, 

They're  all  that  is  sweet  and  seducing  to  man ; 
Looking,  sighing  about  and  about  them, 

We  doat  on  them,  die  for  them,  all  that  we  can, 


*  There  are  many  spurious  copies  of  this  song  in  circulation, 
and  it  is  universally  attributed  to  a  gentle-nan,  who  has  no  more 
right  than  the  Editor  of  these  Poems  to  any  share  whatever  in  the 
composition.     E. 


133 

Here's  Phillis,  whose  innocent  bosom 

Is  always  agog  for  some  novel  desires ; 
To-day  to  get  lovers,  to-morrow  to  lose  'em, 

Is  all  that  the  innocent  Phillis  requires. 
Here's  to  the  gay  little  Jessy,  who  simpers 

So  vastly  good  humour'd,  whatever  is  clone ; 
She'll  kiss  you,  and  that  without  whiningor  whimpers, 

And  do  what  you  please  with  you — all  out  of  tun. 

Dear  creatures,  Sec. 

A  bumper  to  Fanny — I  know  you  will  scorn  her, 

Because  she's  a  prude,  and  her  nose  is  so  curl'dj 
But  if  ever  you  chatted  with  Fan  in  a  corner, 

You'd  say  she's  the  best  little  girl  in  the  world! 
Another  to  Lyddy,  still  struggling  with  duty, 

And  askingher  conscience  still,  "whether  she  should ;" 
While  her  eyes,  in  the  silent  confession  of  beautv, 

Say  "  Only  for  something  I  certainly  would!" 

Dear  creatures,   &-. 

Fill  for  Chloe,  bewitchingly  simple, 

Who  angles  the  heart  without  knowing  her  lure: 

Still  wounding  around  with  a  blush  or  a  dimple, 

Nor  seeming  to  feel  that  she  also  could  tare! 
i. 


134 

Here's  pious  Susan,  the  saint,  who  alone,  Sir, 
Could  ever  have  made  me  religious  outright; 

For  had  I  such  a  dear  little  saint  of  my  own,  Sir, 
I'd  pray  on  my  knees  to  her  half  the  long  night ! 
Dear  creatures,  &c. 


135 


COME,  tell  me  where  the  maid  is  found, 
Whose  heart  can  love  without  deceit, 

And  I  will  range  the  world  around, 
To  sigh  one  moment  at  her  feet. 

Oh !  tell  me,  where's  her  sainted  home, 
What  air  receives  her  blessed  sigh, 

A  pilgrimage  of  years  I'll  roam 
To  catch  one  sparkle  of  her  eye  ! 

And  if  her  cheek  be  rosy  bright, 

While  truth  within  her  bosom  lies, 
I'll  gaze  upon  her  morn  and  night, 
Till  my  heart  leave  me  through  my  eyes! 

Show  me  on  earth  a  thing  so  rare, 

I'll  own  all  miracles  are  true  ; 
To  make  one  maid  sincere  and  fair, 

Oh!   'tis  the  utmost  Heav'n  car.  do! 


SONG*\ 


SWEETEST  love !  I'll  not  forget  thee, 

Time  shall  only  teach  my  heart, 
Fonder,  warmer  to  regret  thee, 

Lovely,  gentle  as  thou  art ! 
Farewel  Bessy  ! 

Yet,  oh  !  yet  again  we'll  meet,  love, 

And  repose  our  hearts  at  last ; 
Oh  !  sure  't  will  then  be  sweet,  love, 

Calm  to  think  on  sorrows  past. 
Farewel  Bessy! 

Yes,  my  girl,  the  distant  blessing 
Mayn't  be  always  sought  in  vain ; 

And  the  moment  of  possessing — 
Will  not,  love,  repay  our  pain  ? 

Farewel  Bessy  1 

*  All  these  songs  were  adapted  to  airs  which  Mr.  Little  composed 
and  sometimes  sang  Tor  his  friends :  this  may  account  for  the  pecu  ■ 
liaritv  of  metre  observable  in  many  of  them.  Editor. 


137 

Still  I  feel  my  heart  is  breaking, 
When  I  think  I  stray  from  thee, 

Round  the  world  that  quiet  seeking, 
Which  I  fear  is  not  for  me  ! 

Farewel  Bessy  1 

Calm  to  peace  thy  lover's  bosom — 
Can  it,  dearest,  must  it  be  ? 

Thou  within  an  hour  shalt  lose  him, 
He  forever  loses  thee  1 

Farewel  Bessv ! 


SONG. 


IF  I  swear  by  that  eye,  you'll  allow 
Its  look  is  so  shifting  and  new, 

That  the  oath  I  might  take  on  it  now, 
The  very  next  glance  would  undo  ! 

Those  babies  that  nestle  so  sly, 

Such  different  arrows  have  got, 
That  an  oath  on  the  glance  of  an  eye, 
Such  as  yours,  may  be  off  in  a  shot  ! 

Should  I  swear  by  the  dew  on  your  lip, 

Though  each  moment  the  treasure  renews, 

If  my  constancy  wishes  to  trip, 

I  may  kiss  off  the  oath  when  I  chose  ! 

Or  a  sigh  may  disperse  from  that  flow'r 
The  dew  and  the  oath  that  ar^  there  ; 

And  I'd  make  a  new  vow  ev'ry  hour. 
To  lose  them  so  sweetly  in  air ! 


139 


But  clear  up  the  heav'n  of  your  brow, 
Nor  fancy  my  faith  is  a  feather  ; 

On  my  heart  I  will  pledge  you  my  vow, 
And  they  both  must  be  broken  together  ! 


JULIA'S  KISS. 


When  infant  Bliss  in  roses  slept, 

Cupid  upon  his  slumber  crept, 

And  while  a  balmy  sigh  he  stole 

Exhaling  from  the  infant's  soul, 

He  smiling  said,  "  With  this,  with  this 

"  I'll  scent  my  Julia's  burning  kiss  1" 

Nay  more,  he  stole  to  Venus'  bed, 
Ere  yet  the  sanguine  flush  had  fled, 
Which  Love's  divinest,  dearest  flame 
Had  kindled  through  her  panting  frame. 
Her  soul  still  dwelt  on  memory's  themes, 
Still  floated  in  voluptuous  dreams, 
And  every  joy  she  felt  before 
In  slumber  now  was  acting  o'er. 
From  her  ripe  lips  which  seem'd  to  thrill 
As  in  the  war  of  kisses  still, 
And  amorous  to  each  other  clung, 
He  stole  the  dew  that  trembling  hung, 
And  smiling  said,  "  With  this,  with  this 
"  I'll  bathe  my  Julia's  burning  kiss  !" 


TO 


REMEMBER  him  thouleav'st  behind, 
Whose  heart  is  warmly  bound  to  thee, 

Close  as  the  tenderest  links  can  bind 
A  heart  as  warm  as  heart  can  be. 

Oh  !  I  had  long  in  freedom  rov'd, 

Though  many  seem'd  my  soul  to  share 

'Twas  passion  when  I  thought  I  lov'd, 
'Twas  fancy  when  I  thought  them  fair. 

Ev'n  she,  my  muse's  early  theme, 
Beguil'd  me  only  while  she  warin'd  ; 

'Twas  young  desire  that  fed  the  dream, 
And  reason  broke  what  passion  form'd. 

But  thou — ah  !   better  had  it  been 
If  I  had  still  in  freedom  rov'd, 

If  I  had  ne'er  thy  beauties  seen, 

For  then  I  never  should  have  lov'd  ! 


142 

Then  all  the  pain  which  lovers  feel 
Had  never  to  my  heart  been  known  ; 

But  ah  !  the  joys  which  lovers  steal, 
Should  they  have  ever  been  my  own  ? 

Oh  !  trust  me,  when  I  swear  thee  this, 
Dearest !  the  pain  of  loving  thee. 

The  very  pain  is  sweeter  bliss 
Than  passion's  wildest  ecstacy  ! 

That  little  cage  I  would  not  part, 
In  which  my  soul  is  prison'd  now, 

For  the  most  light  and  winged  heart 
That  wantons  on  the  passing  vcw. 

Still,  my  belov'd  !  still  keep  in  mind, 
However  far  remov'd  from  me, 

That  there  is  one  thou  leav'st  behind, 
Whose  heart  respires  for  only  thee  ! 

And  though  ungenial  ties  have  bound 
Thy  fate  unto  another's  care  ; 

That  arm  which  clasps  thy  bosom  round, 
Cannot  confine  the  heart  that's  there. 


143 


No,  no  I  that  heart  is  only  mine 

By  ties  all  other  ties  above, 
For  I  have  wed  it  at  a  shrine 

Where  we  have  had  no  priest  but  Love  ! 


SONG. 


FLY  from  the  world,  oh  !  Bessy,  to  me, 

Thou'lt  never  find  any  sincerer  ; 
I'll  give  up  the  world,  oh  !   Bessy  for  thee, 

I  can  never  meet  any  that's  dearer  ! 
Then  tell  me  no  more,  with  a  tear  and  a  sigh, 

That  our  loves  will  be  censur'd  by  manv  ; 
All,  all  have  their  follies,  and  who  will  deny 

That  ours  is  the  sweetest  of  any  ? 

When  your  lip  has  met  mine,  in  abandonment  sweet 
Have  we  felt  as  if  virtue  forbid  it  ? 
Have  we  felt  as  if  Heaven  denied  them  to  meet  ! 

No,  rather  'twas  Heaven  that  did  it ! 
So  innocent,  love,  is  the  pleasure  we  sip, 
So  little  of  guilt  is  there  in  it, 
That  I  wish  all  my  errors  were  lodg'd  on  your  lip 
And  I'd  kiss  them  awav  in  a  minute  ! 


145 

Then  come  to  your  lover,  oh  !  fly  to  Iris  shed, 

From  a  world  which  I  know  thou  despisest ; 
And  slumber  will  hover  as  light  on  our  bed 

As  e'er  on  the  couch  of  the  wisest ! 
And  when  o'er  our  pillow  the  tempest  has  driven, 

And  thou,  pretty  innocent,  fearest, 
I'll  tell  thee,  it  is  not  the  chiding  of  Heaven, 

'Tis  only  our  lullaby,  dearest ! 

And  oh !  when  we  lie  on  our  death-bed,  my  love, 
Looking  back  on  the  scene  of  our  errors  ; 
A  sigh  from  my  Bessy  shall  plead  then  above, 

And  death  be  disarmed  of  his  terrors  ! 
And  each  to  the  other  embracing  will  say, 

"  Farewell — let  us  hope  we're  forgiven?" 
Thy  last  fading  glance  will  illumine  the  way, 
And  a  kiss  be  our  passport  to  heaven  ? 


SONG. 


THINK  on  that  look,  of  humid  ray. 
Which  for  a  moment  mix'd  with  mine. 

And  for  that  moment  seem'd  to  say, 
"  I  dare  not,  or  I  would  be  thine  1" 

Think,  think  on  every  smile  and  glance, 
On  all  thou  hast  to  charm  and  move  ; 

And  then  forgive  my  bosom's  trance, 
And  tell  me  't  is  not  sin  to  love  ! 

Oh  1   not  to  love  thee  were  a  sin, 

For  sure  if  Heav'n's  decrees  be   done. 

Thou,  thou  art  destin'd  still  to  win, 
As  I  was  destin'd  to  be  won  ? 


SONG. 


A  CAPTIVE  thus  to  thee,  my  girl, 
How  sweetly  shall  I  pass  my  age, 

Contented,  like  the  playful  squirrel, 
To  wanton  up  and  down  my  cage. 

When  death  shall  envy  joy  like  this, 
And  come  to  shade  our  sunny  weather, 

Be  our  last  sigh  the  sigh  of  bliss, 

And  both  our  souls  exhal'd  together! 


THE  CATALOGUE. 


"  COME,  tell  me,"  says  Rosa,  as  kissing  and  kist, 
One  day  she  reclin'd  on  my  breast ; 

"  Come  tell  me  the  number,  repeat  me  the  list 
Of  the  nymphs  you  have  loved  and  carest." 

Oh,  Rosa!  'twas  only  my  fancy  that  rov'd, 
My  heart  at  the  moment  was  free; 

But  I'll  tell  thee,  my  girl,  how  many  I've  lov'd 

And  the  number  shall  finish  with  thee  ! 

My  tutor  was  Kitty:   in  infancy  wild 

She  taught  me  the  way  to  be  blest ; 
She  taught  me  to  love  her — I  lov'd  like  a  child. 

But  Kitty  could  fancy  the  rest. 
This  lesson  of  dear  and  enrapturing  love 

I  have  never  forgot,   I  allow  ! 
I  have  had  it  by  rote  very  often  before. 

But  never  by  heart  until  now! 


149 

Pretty  Martha  was  next,  and  my  soul  was  all  fiame, 
But  my  head  was  so  full  of  romance, 
That  I  fancied  her  into  some  chivalry  dame, 

And  I  was  her  knight  of  the  lance  ! 
But  Martha  was  not  of  this  fanciful  school, 
And  she  laugh'd  at  her  poor  little  knight ; 
While  I  thought  her  a  goddess,  she  thought  me  a  fool, 
And  I'll  swear,  she  was  most  in  the  right. 

My  soul  was  now  calm,  till  by  Cloris's  looks 

Again  I  was  tempted  to  rove  ; 
But  Cloris,  I  found,  was  so  learned  in  books, 

That  she  gave  me  more  logic  than  love  ! 
So  I  left  this  young  Sappho,  and  hasten'd  to  fly 

To  those  sweeter  logicians  in  bliss, 
Who  argue  the  point  with  a  soul-telling  eye, 

And  convince  us  at  once  with  a  kiss! 

Oh  !   Susan  was  then  all  the  world  unto  me, 

But  S.  5an  was  piously  given  ; 
And  the  worst  of  it  was,  we  could  never  agree 

On  the  road  tliat  was  shortest  to  heaven  ! 


m   2 


150 

Oh  !   Susan  I've  said,  in  the  moments  of  mirth, 
What's  devotion  to  thee  or  to  me  ? 

I  devoutly  believe  there's  a  heaven  on  earth, 
And  believe  that  that  heaven's  in  thee  ! 

•#•         *ft         *         #•         *         *         * 

«■  ■*-  3?f  3ft  3ft  3ft 


A  FRAGMENT 


TO 


'TIS  night,  the  spectred  hour  is  nigh  ; 
Pensive,  I  hear  the  moaning  blast 
Passing,   with  sad  sepulchral  sigh, 
My  lyre  that  hangs  neglected  by, 
And  seems  to  mourn  for  pleasure  past ! 
That  lyre  was  once  attun'd  for  thee, 
To  many  a  lay  of  fond  delight, 
When  all  thy  days  were  giv'n  to  me, 
And  mine  was  every  blissful  night. 
How  oft  I've  languish'd  by  thy  side, 
And  while  my  heart's  luxuriant  tide 


152 

Ran  in  wild  riot  through  my  veins, 
I've  wak'd  such  sweetly  mad'ning  strains, 
As  if  by  inspiration's  fire 
My  soul  was  blended  with  my  lyre  ! 
Oh  1  while  in  every  fainting  note 
We  heard  the  soul  of  passion  float ; 
While,   in  thy  blue  dissolving  glance 
I've  raptur'd  read  thy  bosom's  trance, 
I've  sung  and  trembled,  kiss'd  and  sung, 
Till,  as  we  mingle  breath  with  breath, 
Thy  burning  kisses  parch  my  tongue, 
My  hands  drop  listless  on  the  lyre, 
And,  murmuring  like  a  swan  in  death, 
Upon  thy  bosom  I  expire  ! 
Yes,  I  indeed  remember  well 
Those  hours  of  pleasure  past  and  o'er; 
Why  have  I  liv'd  their  sweets  to  tell, 
To  tell,  but  never  feel  them  more ! 
I  should  have  died,  have  sweetly  died, 
In  one  of  those  impassion'd  dreams, 
When  languid,  silent  on  ih\  breast, 
Drinking  thine  eyes'  delicious  beams. 
My  soul  has  flutter'd  from  its  nest, 
And  on  thy  lip  just  parting  sigh'd  ! 


153 

Oh !   dying  thus  a  death  of  love, 
To  heav'n  how  dearly  should  I  go, 
He  well  might  hope  for  joys  above, 
Who  had  begun  them  here  below  ! 

-#  #•  #  *  * 


SONG. 


WHERE  is  the  nymph,  whose  azure  eye 
Can  shine  through  rapture's  tear  ? 

The  sun  is  sunk,  the  moon  is  high, 
And  yet  she  comes  not  here  ! 

Was  that  her  footstep  on  the  hill, 

Her  voice  upon  the  gale  ? 
No,  'twas  the  wind,  and  all  is  still , 

Oh,  Maid  of  Marlivale ! 

Come  to  me,  love,  I've  wander'd  far, 

'Tis  past  the  promis'd  hour; 
Come  to  me,  love,  the  twilight  star 

Shall  guide  thee  to  my  bower. 


SONG. 


WHEN  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away, 

Shall  steal  our  pleasures  too, 
The  memory  of  the  past  will  stay, 

And  half  our  joys  renew. 

Then,  Chloe,  when  thy  beauty's  flower 

Shall  feel  the  wintry  air, 
Remembrance  will  recall  the  hour 

When  thou  alone  wert  fair  ! 

Then  talk  no  more  of  future  gloom  ; 

Our  joys  shall  always  last  ; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come. 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 

Come,  Chloe,  fdl  the  genial  bowl, 

I  drink  to  love  and  thee  ; 
Thou  never  canst  decay  in  soul, 

Thou'lt  still  be  young  for  me. 


156 

Ancf  as  thy  lips  the  tear-drop  chase, 
Which  on  my  cheek  they  find, 

So  hope  shall  steal  away  the  trace 
Which  sorrow  leaves  behind  ! 

Then  fill  the  bowl —  away  with  gloom  j 

Our  joys  shall  always  last ; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 

But  mark,  at  thought  of  future  years, 

When  love  shall  lose  its  soul, 
My  Chloe  drops  her  timid  tears, 

They  mingle  with  my  bowl! 

How  like  this  bowl  of  wine,  my  fair, 

Our  loving  life  shall  fleet  ; 
Though  tears  may  sometimes  mingle  there, 

The  draught  will  still  be  sweet  ! 

Then  fill  the  bowl — away  with  gloom  ; 

Our  jovs  shall  always  last  ! 
For  hope  will  brighten  clays  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past  ! 


THE  SHRINE 


TO 


My  fates  had  destin'd  me  to  rove 
A  long,  long  pilgrimage  of  love-, 
And  many  an  altar  on  my  way 
Has  lured  my  pious  steps  to  stay  : 
For,  if  the  saint  was  young  and  fair, 
I  turn'd  and  sung  my  vespers  there. 
This,  from  a  youthful  pilgrim's  fire, 
Is  what  your  pretty  saints  require  ; 
To  pass,  nor  tell  a  single  bead, 
With  them  would  be  profane  indeed : 
But  trust  me,  all  this  young  devotion 
Was  but  to  keep  my  zeal  in  motion  ; 
And,  every  humbler  altar  past, 
I  now  have  reach'd  the  shrine  at  last  ! 


REUBEN  AND  ROSE. 


A  TALE  OF  ROMANCE. 


THE  darkness -which  hung  upon  Willumberg's  walls, 
Has  long  been  remember'd  with  awe  and  dismay  ; 

For  years  not  a  sunbeam  had  play'd  in  its  halls, 
And  it  seem'd  as  shut  out  from  the  reigions  of  day ! 

Though  the  vallies  were  brighten'd  by  many  a  beam, 
Yet  none  could  the  woods  of  the  castle  illume  ; 

And  the  lightning,  which  flash'd  on  the  neighbouring 
stream, 
Flew  back,  as  if  fearing  to  enter  the  gloom! 

"  Oh  !  when  shall  this  horrible  darkness  disperse  r" 
Said  Willumberg's  lord  to  the  seer  of  the  cave  ; 

"  It  can  never  dispel,"  said  the  wizard  of  verse, 

"  Till  the  bright  star  of  chivalry's  sunk  in  the  wave  !" 


1J9 

And  who  was  the  bright  star  of  chivalry  then  ? 

Who  could  be  but  Reuben,  the  flower  of  the  age  1 
For  Reuben  was  first  in  the  combat  of  men,  [pagc« 

Though  youth  had  scarce  written  his  name  on  her 

For  Willumberg's  daughter  his  bosom  had  bent, 
For  Rose,  who  was  bright  as  the  spirit  of  dawn, 

When  with  wand  dropping  diamonds,  and  silvery  feet, 
It  walks  o'er  the  flowers  of  the  mountainandlawn. 

Must  Rose,  then,  from  Reuben  so  fatally  sever  ? 

Sad,  sad  were  the  words  of  the  man  in  the  cave, 
That  darkness  should  cover  the  castle  forever, 

Or  Reuben  be  sunk  in  the  merciless  wave! 

She  flew  to  the  wizard — "  And  tell  me,  oh  !  tell, 

"  Shall  my  Reuben  no  more  be  rcstor'd  to  my  eyes  :" 

"  Yes,  yes, —  when  a  spirit  shall  toll  the  great  bell 
"  Of  the  mouldering  abbey,  your  Reuben  shall  rise  !'1 

Twice,  thrice  he  repeated  "  Your  Reuben  shall  rise," 
And  Rose  felt  a  moment's  release  from  her  pain  ; 

She  wip'd,  while  she  listen'd,  the  tear  from  her  eyes, 
And  she  hop'd  she  might  yet  see  her  hero  again  ! 


160 

Her  hero  could  smile  at  the  terrors  of  death, 
When  he  felt  that  he  died  for  the  sire  of  his  Rose  ; 

To  the  Oder  he  flew,  and  there  plunging  beneath, 
In  the  lapse  of  the  billows  soon  found  his  repose. 

How  strangely  the  order  of  destiny  falls ! 

Not  long  in  the  waters  the  warrior  lay, 
When  a  sunbeam  was  seen  to  glance  over  the  walls, 

And  the  castle  of  Willumberg  bask'd  in  the  day  ! 

All,  all  but  the  soul  of  the  maid  was  in  light, 
There  sorrow  and  terror  lay  gloomy  and  blank  : 

Two  days  did  she  wander,  and  all  the  long  night, 
In  quest  of  her  love,  on  the  wide  river's  bank. 

Oft,  oft  did  she  pause  for  the  toll  of  the  bell, 

And  she  heard  but  the  breathings  of  night  in  the  air  , 

Long,  long  did  she  gaze  on  the  watery  swell, 

And  she  saw  but  the  foam  of  the  white  billow  there, 

And  often  as  midnight  its  veil  would  undraw, 

As  she  look'd  at  the  light  of  the  moon  in  the  stream, 

She  thought  'twas  his  helmet  of  silver  she  saw, 

As  the  curl  of  the  surge  glitter'd  high  in  the  beam. 


161 

And  now  the  third  night  was  begemming  the  sky, 
Poor  Rose  on  the  cold  dewy  margent  reclin'd, 

There  wept  till  the  tear  almost  froze  in  her  eye, 
When  hark!  'twas  the  bell  that  came  deep  in  the  wind  ! 

She  startled,  and  saw,  through  the  glimmering  shade, 
A  form  o'er  the  waters  in  majesty  glide  ; 

She  knew  'twas  her  love,  though  his  cheek  was  decay'd? 
And  his  helmet  of  silver  was  wash'd  by  the  tide. 

Was  this  what  the  seer  of  the  cave  had  foretold  ? 

Dim,  dim  through  the  phantom  the  moon  shot  a  gleam, 
'Twas  Reuben,  but  ah  !  he  was  deathly  and  cold. 

And  fleeted  away  like  the  spell  of  a  dream  ! 

Twice,  thrice  did  he  vist.  and  as  often  she  thought 
From  the  bank  to  embrace  him,  but  never,  ah  '.  never! 

Then  springing  beneath,  at  a  billow  she  caught, 
And  sunk  to  repose  on  its  bosom  for  ever  ! 


THE  RING*. 


Annulus  iile  v'ni.  Ovid.  Amor.   Lib.  ii.  E!eg.  15 


The  happy  day  at  length  arriv'd, 
When  Rupert  was  to  wed 

The  fairest  maid  in  Saxony, 
And  take  her  to  his  bed. 


*  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that  my  friend  had  any  serious  inten- 
tions of  frightening  the  nursery  by  tills  story;  I  rather  hope, 
though  the  manner  of  it  leads  me  to  doubt,  that  his  design  was  to 
ridicule  that  distempered  taste,  which  prefers  those  monsters  of  the 
fane     to  the  "speciosa  miracula"  of  true  poetic  imagination. 

I  rinu,  hy  a  note  in  the  manuscript,  that  he  met  with  this  story 
in  a  German  author,  Fromman  upon  Fascination,  book  iii.  part  vi. 
chap.  18.  On  consulting  the  work,  I  perceive  that  Fromman 
"quotes  it  from  Beluacensisj  among  many  ether  stones  equally  dia. 
V  •  1  ..i'.l  and  interesting.     E. 


163 

As  soon  as  morn  was  in  the  sky, 

The  feasts  and  sports  began  ; 
The  men  admir'd  the  happy  maid, 

The  maids  the  happy  man. 

In  many  a  sweet  device  of  mirth, 

The  day  was  pass'd  along  ; 
And  some  the  featly  dance  amus'd, 

And  some  the  dulcet  song. 

The  younger  maids  with  Isabel 
Disported  through  the  bowers, 

And  deck'd  her  robe  and  crown'd  her  head 
With  motley  bridal  flowers. 

The  matrons  all  in  rich  attire, 

Within  the  castle  walls, 
Sat  listening  to  the  choral  strains 

That  echo'd  through  the  halls. 

Young  Rupert  and  his  friends  repair'd 

Unto  a  spacious  court, 
To  strike  the  bounding  tennis-ball 

In  feat  and  manly  sport. 


164 

The-bride  groom  on  his  finger  had 
The  wedding-ring  so  bright, 

Which  was  to  grace  the  lily  hand 
Of  Isabel  that  night. 

And  fearing  he  might  break  the  gem, 

Or  lose  it  in  the  play, 
He  look'd  around  the  court  to  see 

Where  he  the  ring  might  lay. 

Now  in  the  court  a  statue  stood, 
Which  there  full  long  had  been  ; 

It  was  a  Heathen  goddess,  or 
Perhaps  a  Heathen  queen. 

Upon  its  marble  finger  then 

He  tried  the  ring  to  fit; 
And  thinking  it  was  safest  there, 

Thereon  he  fasten'd  it. 

And  now  the  tennis  sports  went  on, 
Till  they  were  wearied  all, 

And  messengers  announced  to  them 
Their  dinner  in  the  hall. 


165 

Young  Rupert  for  his  wedding-ring 

Unto  the  statue  went, 
But  oh!  how  was  he  shock'd  to  find 

The  marble  finger  bent  J 

The  hand  was  closed  upon  the  ring 

With  firm  and  mighty  clasp; 
In  vain  he  tried,  and  tried,  and  tried, 

He  could  not  loose  the  grasp  t 

Now  sore  surpris'd  was  Rupert's  mind, 

As  well  his  mind  might  be  ; 
"  I  '11  come,"   quoth  he,  "  at  night  again, 

"  When  none  are  here  to  see.  " 

He  went  unto  the  feast,  and  much 

He  thought  upon  his  ring ; 
And  much  he  wonder'd  what  could  mean 

So  very  strange  a  thing  ! 

The  feast  was  o'er,  and  to  the  court 

He  went  without  delay, 
Resolv'd  to  break  the  marble  hand, 

And  force-  the  ring  away  ! 


166 

But  mark  a  stranger  wonder  still, 

The  ring  was  there  no  more  ; 
Yet  was  the  marble  hand  ungrasp'd, 

And  open  as  before  I 

He  search'd  the  base,  and  all  the  court, 

And  nothing  could  he  find, 
But  to  the  castle  did  return 

With  sore  bewilder' d  mind. 

Within  he  found  them  all  in  mirth, 

The  night  in  dancing  flew  j 
The  youth  another  ring  procur'd, 

And  none  th'  adventure  knew. 

And  now  the  priest  had  join'd  their  hands, 

The  hours  of  love  advance  ! 
Rupert  almost  forgets  to  think 

Upon  the  morn's  mischance. 

Within  the  bed  fair  Isabel, 

In  blushing  sweetness  lay, 
Like  flowers,  half-open'd  by  the  dawn, 

And  waiting  for  the  day. 


167 

And  Rupert  by  her  lovely  side, 

In  youthful  beauty  glows 
Like  Phoebus,  when  he  bends  to  cast 

His  beams  upon  a  rose  ! 

And  here  my  song  should  leave  them  both, 

Nor  let  the  rest  be  told, 
But  for  the  horrid,  horrid  tale 

It  yet  has  to  unfold  ! 

Soon  Rupert,  'twixt  his  bride  and  him, 

A  death-cold  carcass  found  ; 
He  saw  it  not,  but  thought  he  felt 

Its  arms  embrace  him  round. 

He  started  up,  and  then  return'd, 

But  found  the  phantom  still  ? 
In  vain  he  shrunk,  it  clipp'd  him  round, 

With  damp  and  deadly  chill ! 

And  when  he  bent,  the  earthy  lips 

A  kiss  oi  horror  give; 
'Twas  like  the  smell  from  charneUvaults, 

Or  from  the  mouldering  grave  ! 


168 

111  fated  Rupert,  wild  and  loud 

Thou  criedst  to  thy  wife, 
"  Oh  !  save  me  from  this  horrid  fiend, 

"  My  Isabel !  my  life  !" 

But  Isabel  had  nothing  seen, 

She  look'd  around  in  vain  ; 
And  much  she  mourn'd  the  mad  conceit 

That  rack'd  her  Rupert's  brain. 

At  length  from  this  invisible 
These  words  to  Rupert  came  ; 

(Oh  God !  while  he  did  hear  the  words ! 
What  terrors  shook  his  frame  !) 

M  Husband  !  husband  !   I've  the  ring 

"  Thou  gav'st  to  day  to  me ; 
"  And  thou  'rt  to  me  for  ever  wed, 

"  As  I  am  wed  to  thee  !" 

And  all  the  night  the  demon  lay 

Cold  chilling  by  his  side, 
And  strain'd  him  with  such  deadly  grasp, 

He  thought  he  should  have  died  ! 


169 

But  when  the  dawn  of  day  was  near, 

The  horrid  phantom  fled, 
And  left  the  affrighted  youth  to  weep 

By  Isabel  in  bed. 

All,  all  that  day  a  gloomy  cloud 
Was  seen  on  Rupert's  brows  ; 

Fair  Isabel  was  likewise  sad, 
But  strove  to  cheer  her  spouse. 

And,  as  the  day  advanc'd,  he  thought 
Of  coming  night  with  fear  ; 

Ah  1  that  he  must  with  terror  view 
The  bed  that  should  be  dear ! 

At  length  the  second  night  arriv'd, 
Again  their  couch  they  prest ; 

Poor  Rupert  hop'd  that  all  was  o'er, 
And  look'd  for  love  and  rest. 

But  oh  !  when  midnight  came,  again 

The  fiend  was  at  his  side, 
And  as  it  strain' d  him  in  its  grasp, 
With  howl  exulting  cried, 


170 

"  Husband  I  husband  !  Iv'e  the  ring, 
u  The  ring  thou  gav'st  to  me  ; 

"  And  thou'rt  to  me  forever  wed, 
"  As  I  am  wed  to  thee  !" 

In  agony  of  wild  despair, 

He  started  from  the  bed  ; 
And  thus  to  his  bewilder' d  wife 

The  trembling  Rupert  said : 

"  Oh  Isabel !  dost  thou  not  see 
"  A  shape  of  horrors  here, 

"  That  strains  me  to  the  deadly  kiss, 
"  And  keeps  me  from  my  dear  ?" 

"  No,  no,  my  love  !  my  Rupert,  I 
"  No  shape  of  horrors  see  ; 

"  And  much  I  mourn  the  phantasy 
"  That  keeps  my  dear  from  me  1" 

This  night,  just  like  the  night  before 

In  terrors  pass'd  away, 
Nor  did  the  demon  vanish  thence 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 


m 

Says  Rupert  then,  "  My  Isabel, 

"  Dear  partner  of  my  woe, 
"  To  Father  Austin's  holy  cave 

"  This  instant  will  I  go." 

Now  Austin  was  a  reverend  man, 

Who  acted  wonders  maint, 
Whom  all  the  country  round  belie v'd 

A  devil  or  a  saint! 

To  Father  Austin's  holy  cave 
Then  Rupert  went  full  straight, 

And  told  him  all,  and  ask'd  him  how 
To  remedy  his  fate. 

The  Father  heard  the  youth,  and  then 

Retir'd  awhile  to  pray; 
And,  having  pray'd  for  half  an  hour, 

Return'd,  and  thus  did  say  : 

"  There  is  a  place  where  four  roads  meet, 

"  Which  I  will  tell  to  thee ; 
"  Be  there  this  eve,  at  fall  of  night, 

u  And  list  what  thou  shalt  see. 


in 

"  Thou'lt  see  a  group  of  figures  pass 

"  In  strange  disorder'd  crowd, 
"  Travelling  by  torch-light  through  the  roads, 

"With  noises  strange  and  loud. 

"  And  one  that's  high  above  the  rest, 

*'  Terrific  towering  o'er, 
"  Will  make  thee  know  him  at  a  glance, 

"  So  I  need  say  no  more. 

"  To  him  from  me  these  tablets  give, 

"  They'll  soon  be  understood; 
"  Thou  need'st  not  fear,  but  give  them  straight. 

"  I've  scrawl'd  them  with  my  blood  1" 

The  night-fall  came,  and  Rupert  all 

In  pale  amazement  went 
To  where  the  cross-roads  met,  and  he 

Was  by  the  Father  sent. 

And  lo!  a  group  of  figures  came 

In  strange  disorder'd  crowd, 
Travelling  by  torch-light  through  the  roads, 

With  noises  strange  and  loud. 


And,  as  the  gloomy  train  advatic'd, 

Rupert  beheld  from  far 
A  female  form  of  wanton  mien, 

Seated  upon  a  car. 

And  Rupert,  as  he  gaz'd  upon 

The  loosely-vested  dame, 
Thought  of  the  marble  statue's  look, 

For  hers  was  just  the  same. 

Behind  her  walk'd  a  hideous  form, 
With  eyeballs  flashing  death; 

Whene'er  he  breath'd,  a  sulphur'd  smoke 
Came  burning  in  his  breath! 

He  seein'd  the  first  of  all  the  crowd, 

Terrific  towering  o'er: 
"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Rupert,  "  this  is  he, 

"  And  I  need  ask  no  more." 

Then  slow  he  went,  and  to  this  fiend 

The  tablets  trembling  gave, 
Who  look'd  and  read  them  with  a  yell 

That  would  disturb  the  grave. 

c  2 


174- 

And  when  he  saw  the  blood-scrawl'd  name, 

His  eyes  with  lury  shine; 
*'  I  thought,"  cries  he,  "  his  time  was  out, 

u  But  he  must  soon  be  minel,, 

Then  darting  at  the  youth  a  look, 
Which  rent  his  soul  with  fear, 

He  went  unto  the  female  fiend, 
And  whisper'd  in  her  ear. 

The  female  fiend  no  sooner  heard, 

Than,  with  reluctant  look, 
The  very  ring  that  Rupert  lost, 

She  from  her  finger  took. 

And  giving  it  unto  the  youth, 
With  eyes  that  breath' d  of  hell, 

She  said,  in  that  tremendous  voice, 
Which  he  remember'd  well: 

"  In  Austin's  name  take  back  the  ring, 
"  The  ring  though  gav'st  to  me; 

"  And  thou'rt  to  me  no  longer  wed, 
**  Nor  longer  I  to  thee." 


17 S 

He  took  the  ring,  the  rabble  pass'd, 
He  home  return'd  again; 

His  wife  was  then  the  happiest  fair, 
The  happiest  he  of  men  1 


SONG. 


THE  BIRTH-DAY  OF  MRS.- 


WRITTEN   IN    IRELAND. 


OF  all  my  happiest  hours  of  joy, 
And  even  I  have  had  my  measure, 

When  hearts  were  full,  and  ev'ry  eye 

Has  kindled  with  the  beams  of  pleasure  ! 

Such  hours  as  this  I  ne'er  was  given, 
So  dear  to  friendship  dear  to  blisses  ; 

Young  Love  himself  looks  down  from  heaven 
To  smile  on  such  a  day  as  this  is  ! 

Then  oh  my  friends,  the  hour  improve, 
Let's  feel  as  if  we  ne'er  could  sever; 

And  may  the  birth  of  her  we  love 
Be  thus  with  joy  remembcr'd  ever  I 


177 

Oh  !  banish  ev'ry  thought  to-night, 

Which  could  disturb  our  soul's  communion ; 

Abandon'd  thus  to  dear  delight, 

We'll  e'en  for  once  forget  the  Union! 

On  that  let  statesmen  try  their  pow'rs, 

And  tremble  o'er  the  rights  they'd  die  for  ; 

The  union  of  the  soul  be  ours, 

And  every  union  else  we  sigh  for! 

Then  oh!  my  friends,  this  hour  improve, 
Let's  feel  as  if  we  ne'er  could  sever ; 
And  may  the  birth  of  her  we  love 
Be  thus  with  joy  remember'd  ever! 

In  every  eye  around  I  mark 

The  feelings  of  the  heart  o'erflowing; 
From  every  soul  I  catch  the  spark 

Of  sympathy,  in  friendship  glowing! 

Oh  !  could  such  moments  ever  fly, 

Oh!   that  wc  ne'er  where  doom'd  to  lose  'em; 
And  all  as  bright  as  Charlotte's  eye, 

And  all  as  pure  as  Charlotte's  bosom. 


178 

But  oh!  my  friends,  this  hour  improve, 
Let's  feel  as  if  we  ne'er  could  sever; 

And  may  the  birth  of  her  we  love 
Be  thus  with  joy  remember'd  ever! 

For  me,  whate'er  my  span  of  years, 
Whatever  sun  may  light  my  roving; 

Whether  I  waste  my  life  in  tears, 

Or  live,  as  now,  for  mirth  and  loving! 

This  day  shall  come  with  aspect  kind, 
Wherever  fate  may  cast  jour  rover; 

He'll  think  of  those  he  left  behind, 

And  drink  a  health  to  bliss  that's  over ! 

Then  oh  !  my  friends,  this  hour  improve, 
Let's  feel  as  if  we  ne'er  could  sever ; 

And  may  the  birth  of  her  we  love 

Be  thus  with  withjoy  remember'd  ever  i 


TO  A  BOY, 


WITH  A  WATCH. 


WHTTEN  FOR  A  raiENC- 


IS  it  not  sweet,  beloved  you\h ! 

To  rove  through  Erudition's  bowers, 
And  cull  the  golden  fruits  of  truth, 

And  gather  Fancy's  brilliant  flowers? 

And  is  it  not  more  sweet  than  this, 
To  feel  thy  parents'  hearts  approving, 

And  pay  them  back  in  sums  of  bliss 
The  dear,  the  endless  debt  of  loving? 

It  must  be  so  to  thee,  my  youth; 

With  this  idea  toil  is  lighter; 
This  sweetens  all  the  fruits  of  truth, 

And  makes  the  flowers  of  fancy  brighter! 


180 

The  little  gift  we  send  thee,  boy, 

May  sometimes  teach  thy  soul  to  ponder, 

If  indolence  or  syren  joy 

Should  ever  tempt  that  soul  to  wander. 

'Twill  tell  thee  that  the  winged  day 

Can  ne'er  be  chain'd  by  man's  endeavour  j 

That  life  and  time  shall  fade  away, 
While  heav'n  and  virtue  bloom  forever! 


FRAGMENTS  OF  COLLEGE  EXERCISES. 


Nobilitas  sola  est  atque  unica.  virtus.  Juvexat.. 

MARK  those  proud  boasters  of  a  splendid  line, 

Like  gilded  ruins,  mouldering  while  they  shine. 

How  heavy  sits  that  weight  of  alien  show, 

Like  martial  helm  upon  an  infant's  brow; 

Those  borrow'd  splendours,  whose  contrasted  light 

Throws  back  the  native  shades  in  deeper  night. 

Ask  the  proud  train,  who  glory's  shade  pursue, 
Where  are  the  arts  by  which  that  glory  grew? 
The  genuine  virtues,  that  with  eagle-gaze 
Sought  young  Renown,  in  all  her  orient  blaze  ! 
When.-  is  the  heart  by  thymic  truth  rcfm'd, 
'TV  exploring  soul,  whose  eye  had  read  mankind? 
Where  are  the  links  that  twin'd,  with  heav'nly  art, 
His  country's  interest  round  the  patriot's  heart  ? 


3  82 

Where  is  the  tongue  that  scatter'd  words  of  fire, 
The  spirit,  breathing  through  the  poet's  lyre? 
Do  these  descend  with  all  that  tide  of  fame, 
Which  vainly  waters  an  unfruitful  name  I 

*         •*•         *         •*         #■         -#         *          «- 


183 


J.istum  b  11  -m  fiu'bus  necessavium,  et  pia  arma,  quibus  nulla, 
nisi  in  armis  relinquitnr  spes.     Livy. 


jjjgl 


$  *  *  *  *■  *  *  * 

IS  there  no  call,  no  consecrating  cause, 
Approv'd  by  Heav'n,  ordain'd  by  nature's  laws, 
Where  justice  flies  the  herald  of  our  way, 
And  truth's  pure  beams  upon  the  banners  play? 

Yes,  there's  a  call,  sweet  as  an  angel's  breath 
To  slumbering  babes,  or  innocence  in  death  ; 
And,  urgent  as  the  tongue  of  Heaven  within, 
When  the  mind's  balance  trembles  upon  sin. 

Oh  !  'tis  our  country's  voice,  whose  claim   should 

meet 
An  echo  in  the  soul's  most  deep  retreat;. 
Along  the  heart's  responding  string  should  run, 
Nor  let  a  tone  there  vibrate — but  the  one  ! 


SONG*. 


MARY,  I  believ'd  thee  true, 

And  I  was  blest,  in  thus  believing ; 

But  now  I  mourn  that  e'er  I  knew 
A  girl  so  fair,  and  so  deceiving ! 

Few  have  ever  lov'd  like  me, 

Oh !   I  have  lov'd  thee  too  sincerely ! 

And  few  have  e'er  deceiv'd  like  thee, 
Alas  !  deceiv'd  me  too  severely  1 

Fare  thee  well,  yet  think  a  while 

On  one,  -whose  bosom  bleeds  to  doubt  thee  ; 
V/ho  now  would  rather  trust  that  smile, 

And  die  with  thee,  than  live  without  thee  ! 

*  I  believe  these  words  were  adapted  by  Mr.  Little  to  the  pa- 
thetic Scotch  air  "  Galla  Water."    E. 


185 

Fare  thee  well,  I'll  think  of  thee, 

Thou  leav'st  me  many  a  bitter  token  j 

For  see,  distracting  woman  !  see, 

My  peace  is  gone,  my  heart  is  broken  '. 
Fare  thee  well ! 


SONG. 


WHY  does  azure  deck  the  sky? 

'Tis  to  be  like  thy  looks  of  blue  ; 
Why  is  red  the  rose's  die  ? 

Because  it  is  thy  blushes'   hue. 
All  that's  fair,  by  love's  decree, 
Has  been  made  resembling  thee  ' 

Why  is  falling  snow  so  white, 
But  to  be  like  thy  bosom  fair  ? 

Why  are  solar  beams  so  bright  ? 

That  they  may  seem  thy  golden  hair  I 

All  that's  bright,  by  love's  decree, 

Has  been  made  resembling  thee  I 

Why  are  nature's  beauties  felt ! 

Oh!   'tis  thine  in  her  we  see  ! 
Why  has  music  power  to  melt  ? 

Oh  !   because  it  speaks  like  thee  i 
All  that's  sweet,  by  love's  decree, 
Has  been  made  resembling  thee  ! 


MORALITY. 


A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE, 


Addressed  to 


JOS.  AT— NS—N,  ESQ.  M.R.I.A.* 


THOUGH  long  at  school  and  college  dozing 
On  books  of  rhyme,   and  books  of  prosing, 
And  copying  from  their  moral  pages 
Fine  recipes  for  forming  sages  ; 
Though  long  with  those  divines  at  school. 
Who  think  to  make  us  good  by  rule  ; 
Who,   in  methodic  forms  advancing, 
Teaching  morality  like  dancing, 
Tell  us,  for  heav'n  or  money's  sake, 
What  steps  we  are  through  life  to  take  ; 


•  The  gentleman,  to  whom  this  poem  is  addressed,  is  the  author 
of  some  esteemed  works,  and  was  Mr.  Little's  most  particular 
friend.  I  have  heard  Mr.  Little  very  frequently  speak  of  him. 
as  one,  in  whom"  the  elements  where  so  mixed,"  that  neither  in 
his  head  nor  heart  had  nature  left  any  deliciency.         Editor. 


188 

Though  thus,  my  friend,  so  long  employ'd, 
And  so  much  midnight  oil  dcstrov'd, 
I  must  confess,  my  searches  past, 
I  only  learn'd  to  doubt  at  last. 

I  find  the  doctors  and  the  sages 
Have  differ'd  in  all  climes  and  ages, 
And  two  in  fifty  scarce  agree 
On  what  is  pure  morality  ! 
'Tis  like  the  rainbow's  shifting  zone, 
And  every  vision  makes  its  own. 

The  doctors  of  the  Porch  advise, 
As  modes  of  being  great  and  wise, 
That  we  should  cease  to  own,  or  know 
The  luxuries,  that  from  feeling  flow. 

"  Reason  alone  must  claim  direction, 
"  And  apathy's  the  soul's  perfection. 
"  Like  a  dull  lake  the  heart  must  lie, 
"  Nor  passion's  gale  nor  pleasure's  sigh, 
"  Though  heav'n  the  breeze,  the  breath  supplied, 
"Must  curl  the  wave  or  swell  the  tide!" 

Such  was  the  rigid  Zeno's  plan 
To  form  his  philosophic  man  ; 


189' 

Such  were  the  modes  he  taught  mankind 
To  weed  the  garden  of  the  mind  ; 
They  tore  away  some  weeds,  'as  true, 
But  all  xhcjloxvcrs  were  ravish'd  too  I 

Now  listen  to  the  wily  strains, 
Which  on  Cyrene's  sandy  plains, 
When  Pleasure,  nymph  with  loosen'd  zone, 
Usurp'd  the  philosophic  throne  ; 
Hear  what  the  courtly  Sage's*  tongue 
To  his  surrounding  pupils  sung  : 

"  Pleasure's  the  only  nohle  end, 
"  To  which  all  human  pow'rs  should  tend, 
"  And  Virtue  gives  her  heavenly  lore, 
u  But  to  make  pleasure  please  us  more  ! 
"  Wisdom  and  she  were  both  design'cl 
"  To  make  the  senses  more  refin'd, 
"That  man  might  revel,   free  from  cloying, 
"  Then  most  a  sage,  when  most  enjoying  1" 

Is  this  morality  ?      Oh,  no  ! 
E'en  I  a  wiser  path  could  show. 
The  flower,  within  this  vase  confm'd, 
The  pure,  th'  unfading  flower  of  mind, 

*  Aristippus. 


190 

Must  not  throw  all  its  sweets  away 
Upon  a  mortal  mould  of  clay  ; 
No,  no  !  its  richest  breath  should  rise, 
In  virtue's  incense  to  the  skies  ! 

But  thus  it  is,  all  sects  we  see 
Have  watch-words  of  morality  ; 
Some  cry  out  Venus,  others  Jove, 
Here  'tis  religion,  there  'tis  love! 
But  while  they  thus  so  wisely  wander, 
While  mystics  dream,  and  doctors  ponder  ; 
A:.d  some,   in  dialectics  firm, 
Seek  virtue  in  a  middle  term  ; 
While  thus  they  strive,  in  heavn's'  defiance, 
To  chain  morality  with  science  ; 
The  plain  good  man,  whose  actions  teach 
More  virtue  than  a  sect  can  preach, 
Pursues  his  course,  unsagely  blest, 
His  tutor  whispering  in  his  breast ; 
Nor  could  he  act  a  purer  part, 
Though  he  had  Tullv  all  bv  heart ; 
And  when  he  drops  the  tear  on  woe, 
Pie  little  knows,  or  cares  to  know 
That  Epictetus  blam'd  that  tear, 
By  heav'n  appro v'd  to  virtue  dear  ! 


191 

Oh  !  when  I've  seen  the  morning  beam 
Floating  within  the  dimpled  stream  ; 
While  Nature,  wakening  from  the  night, 
Has  just  put  on  her  robes  of  light, 
Have  I  with  cold  optician's  gaze, 
Explor'd  the  doctrine  of  those  rays  ? 
No,  pedants,  I  have  left  to  you, 
Nicely  to  separate  hue  from  hue  : 
Go,  give  that  moment  up  to  art, 
When  heav'n  and  nature  claim  the  heart, 
And,  dull  to  all  their  best  attraction, 
Go — measure  angles  of  refraction  ! 
While  I,  in  feeling's  sweet  romance, 
Look  on  each  day-beam  as  a  glance, 
From  the  great  eye  of  Him,  above, 
Wak'ning  his  world  with  looks  of  love  ! 


THE  NATAL  GENIUS, 


A  DREAM. 


TO. 


THE  MCEXING  OF  HER  BIRTH-DAY. 


IN  witching  slumbers  of  the  night, 
I  clream'd  I  was  the  airy  sprite, 

That  on  thy  natal  moment  smil'd  ; 
And  thought  I  wafted  on  my  wing 
Those  flow'rs,  which  in  Elysium  spring, 

To  crown  my  lovely  mortal  child. 

With  olive-branch  I  bound  thy  head, 
Heart's-ease  along  thy  path  I  shed, 

Whi  :h  was  to  Lioom  through  all  thy  years  } 
Nor  did  I  yet  forget  to  bind 
Love's  roses,  with  his  myrtle  twin'd, 

And  dew'd  by  sympathetic  tears* 


193 

Such  was  the  wild  but  precious  boon, 
Which  Fancy,  at  her  magic  noon, 

Bade  me  to  Nona's  image  pay — > 
Oh  !   were  I,  love,  thus  doom'd  to  be 
Thy  little  guardian  deity, 

How  blest  around  thy  steps  I'd  play  ! 

Thy  life  should  softly  steal  along, 
Calm  as  some  lonely  shepherd's  song, 

That's  heard  at  distance  in  the  grove. 
No  cloud  should  ever  shade  thy  sky, 
No  thorns  along  thy  pathway  lie, 

But  all  be  sunshine,  peace,   and  love  I 

The  wing  of  time  should  never  brush 
Thv  dewy  lip's  luxuriant  flush, 

To  bid  its  roses  withering  die  ; 
Nor  age  itself,   though  dim  and  dark, 
Should  ever  quench  a  single  spark, 

That  flashes  from  mv  Nona's  eve  ! 


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